


the heat can melt your brain

by likecharity



Category: British Comedy RPF, Off Menu with Ed Gamble and James Acaster (Podcast)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Awkwardness, Barebacking, Blow Jobs, Consent Issues, Crying, Desperation, Dry Orgasm, Embarrassment, Friends to Lovers, Frottage, M/M, Masturbation, Multiple Orgasms, Neediness, Oral Sex, Overstimulation, Riding, Sex Pollen, Shower Sex, Unsafe Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-08
Updated: 2019-07-08
Packaged: 2020-06-24 22:15:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 23,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19732840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/likecharity/pseuds/likecharity
Summary: "So what happened?" he asks, putting one foot over the threshold so that James can't actually shut the door on him, and James looks distraught when he realises Ed has no intention of doing as he's been told. "You ate some biscuits. And they made you horny."James kicks at the doorframe, a sudden little explosive gesture of embarrassed frustration. "Yes," he says then, sullenly, avoiding eye contact.





	the heat can melt your brain

**Author's Note:**

> CAN YOU BELIEVE HOW LONG THIS IS, etc.
> 
> Many thanks to [wreathed](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wreathed) for talking the idea out with me, and to [Sashataakheru](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sashataakheru/pseuds/Sashataakheru) for the beta services. ❤️ Title from 'The Center of the Universe' by Viva Voce. 
> 
> And just to clarify - I used the "consent issues" tag because of the sex pollen-induced altered state, as well as a temporary misconception that there are unrequited feelings involved. That is the extent of the issues!

The biscuits do not look suspicious, but then, James hasn't really been suspicious of anything they've been sent as a result of the podcast. He's just happy to get free food. They are quite small and round, with crinkled edges, sprinkled with sugar and also with flakes of something reddish-pink. He proceeds to eat one as soon as he's unwrapped the package, thinking for the hundredth time how glad he is that he and Ed decided to do a food podcast.

He goes to the fridge for a bottle of water to wash it down, and halfway there feels a sudden, inexplicable head rush. It's not unpleasant. It feels sort of like he's downed a glass of champagne too fast on an empty stomach. He has a swig of water and then fumbles for his phone, texting Ed. _Did you get sent some biscuits?_ he asks him. _Dunno what's in them but I feel TIPSY. 5 stars_

At this point he is perhaps slightly suspicious, but assumes maybe there's some alcohol in the biscuits and that the baker somehow managed to get it to retain its intoxicating effects. Or maybe they're sweeter than they seem, and he's just experiencing a bit of a sugar rush—though it doesn't feel like any sugar rush he's ever had.

He brings the biscuits with him into the living room, flopping down onto the sofa and eating a second one. They're really quite delicious. There's an unidentifiable spice to them—it's mild, but it seems to be making him feel hot nonetheless. He munches his way through a third, running his other hand through his hair. His forehead feels damp, but it's a warm summer day, so that's not that strange in itself. What _is_ strange is that the touch of his palm to his forehead sends a weird tingling sensation through both. 

His phone pings. Ed has texted him back. The little speech bubble just says, _What?_ and appears to swim slightly in front of James's eyes.

 _Actually they're kinda weird,_ he types back, uncertainly, and it seems to take an age, the pads of his fingers sort of smearing against the screen. After the fourth biscuit he definitely feels...different. He feels heavy, the way that sleepiness can weigh you down, only he's not sleepy, exactly, more just loose and sort of languid. He fumbles for the packet, scanning the list of ingredients and realising he probably should've done so earlier. It's difficult to focus but it doesn't look like there's anything unusual in them, nothing that would cause—

He realises that he's starting to get hard, and drops the packet instantly onto the coffee table. _Oh._

He's calling Ed before he realises what he's doing, which is alarming. Their conversation's still up on his phone, so it only takes a couple of taps. It must be a sort of panic reaction. His brain is all fuzzy like he's drunk, but he supposes Ed's his first instinct because he's already been apprised of the situation—sort of. And the biscuits were addressed to Off Menu, so Ed ought to know about this, right? It seems sensible. This is what James tries to tell himself when he realises what he's doing, and it has to be at least _partially_ true, but there's also a strange, urgent feeling that has no rationality behind it whatsoever, tugging somewhere deep inside of him. 

He becomes aware of this feeling slightly too late. Ed picks up.

"Hello?"

James hangs up instantly, feeling as hot with embarrassment as if Ed had actually walked into the room and seen the tent in his trousers. He wipes his forehead again and takes a shaky breath. He _really_ wants to touch himself, but he's still concerned about what exactly is going on here. Surely he needs to focus on figuring that out instead of just...masturbating. But it's so hard to think. His thoughts keep ducking and diving. With immense effort, he focuses on the biscuits and manages to have the realisation that they must contain some sort of aphrodisiac. James has tried other foods that people claim are aphrodisiacs and he has never felt anything even close to this, but perhaps it's a particularly strong one. Maybe something exotic. Possibly illegal. 

Or maybe it's just something totally normal that usually has a mild effect and because it's been a while for James, and he's already reasonably hard up for it, it's—worse. Maybe because he's already so pathetically horny all the time _anyway_ , the effect has been intensified, and if he had things under control he wouldn't be feeling totally overwhelmed by it like he is right now.

It's also possible that the biscuits are meant to leave you with that slight, tipsy happy feeling he had at first, and that if you only eat one and don't eat _four_ like an absolute pig, you're fine.

James stops mentally chastising himself in order to peel off his t-shirt. He feels like he's overheating.

His phone pings. _You okay?_ Ed is asking, and James feels even more warmth flood through him, from his head to his toes. Ed is concerned for him. Ed cares about him, a lot. He wonders if Ed would be caring in bed, too. Probably he's an attentive lover. If they slept together, would he be totally focused on James's pleasure? Checking in with him all the time, perhaps, to make sure he was feeling good. James has a sudden flash of an image—Ed down between his legs, wrapping a hand around his cock, about to...about to suck it. James can see it so clearly, Ed looking up at him with a soft expression, a smile that's gentle with a hint of cheeky, murmuring "You okay?"

James feels himself go even hotter, this time with shame. He doesn't—he doesn't let himself think about things like that. Ed is his _friend_ , and he is very much _not supposed to think about things like that._ He's had many years of practice, keeping such thoughts at bay, so it's alarming how easily that one slipped through. It's also such a devastatingly attractive image that he can't quite banish it even now that he's trying. He has his fly unzipped. When did that happen? He wants to get off so badly he really can't think about much else, even as a distant part of his mind is still nagging at him about how unnatural all of this feels.

He forces himself to grab his phone and text Ed back, so he won't get suspicious. _Yes fine,_ is all he can manage. Then, relieved that this task is out of the way, he hurriedly shucks his trousers, momentarily tangling them around his shoes before he remembers he needs to take those off first. He finds himself laughing, even though the entire situation is highly alarming. He would never normally feel the need to get totally naked just to have a wank, but right now being dressed feels so horrible and wrong that he doesn't feel like he has a choice. His clothes feel so heavy and _hot_ that he may as well be wearing a parka in the middle of a desert. But at the same time the sensation they're imparting on his skin is sending little sparks of pleasure along his nerves—the subtlest movement and the fabric shifts against him and it's as if the sensation travels directly to his cock. He peels off his underwear, clumsily navigates it all the way down his legs and off.

Then he remembers he's in his living room and it's the middle of the day and his curtains are wide open. There's another block of flats across the way and he feels very much exposed. On display. As embarrassing as that feels, it also brings an extra stab of arousal (because apparently everything fucking does, right now) like he's being _naughty._

 _God._ He grabs a blanket from the back of the sofa to cover himself for a moment while he drags his feet over to the window—the brush of soft fabric against his bare skin feels delicious and distracts him horribly, but he makes it, yanking the curtains shut and then immediately throwing the blanket aside and throwing himself down onto the sofa so that he can get at his cock immediately.

As soon as he touches it, he lets out a long, low groan of relief. It feels ridiculously, disproportionately good, as if—as if he's feeling it for the first time. He's rough with himself in his eagerness, immediately jerking himself hard and fast where normally he might try to ease into it. He doesn't usually make much noise at all, but he can't seem to stop himself moaning. It just feels so _good_. He knows, somewhere in the back of his mind, that something must be wrong, but it's very hard to make himself care when his senses are being assaulted with pleasure like this. He writhes against the sofa, feeling the fabric rub against his shoulder-blades, his arse, the soles of his feet. He thrusts his hips up, pushing his cock into his fist, and fails to hold back another moan.

His phone pings from the coffee table and he can't stop what he's doing to check it—he's not sure he'd be able to stop even if the sofa were on fire—but he knows it's probably Ed, saying something like "Are you sure?" or maybe even "Do you need anything?" The thought makes James squirm and stroke himself faster, too far gone to repress the thoughts. Guiltily, he lets himself imagine Ed beside him—smile tugging at the corners of his lips, eyes crinkling, a hand reaching out to gently replace James's own. "Here, let me take care of you," he might say, and James would get to just lie back and let him...

God, why has he never let himself fantasise about Ed before? It's _so good._ Ed would probably say something like "This is what you need, isn't it? Poor thing," in that sweetly mocking way of his, a twinkle of mischief in his eyes. "Don't worry, I'll make it better." And then—his lovely plump lips wrapped around James's cock—

The image has barely had a chance to materialise in his mind when James comes, too fast—hips jerking up off the sofa, body convulsing, toes curling as he shoots up onto his quivering chest and stomach, mind shocked suddenly blank by the intensity of the orgasm. 

For a frightening moment, after, he's not entirely sure what's happening, how he got to this point. Like waking up in an unfamiliar bed, he feels disoriented, eventually remembering the biscuits as if recalling the hazy memory of a dream. The most confusing thing is that he's still hard, and still feeling just as needy and excited as he was before he gave in and started touching himself. It's as if the orgasm didn't even happen, though he can see the evidence of it splattered all over his torso. He doesn't feel better at all for having succumbed to the urges; he just wants, immediately, to go again—hand already drifting back to his slick cock to make another attempt to relieve the ache.

He tries to make himself go slower, with the half-formed idea that maybe he came too fast for it to _count_ somehow. Maybe, he thinks with some embarrassment, he just got overstimulated once he let himself think of Ed. He's forbidden himself from having those thoughts for such a long time. Giving into them after years of fighting was too much for him, perhaps.

But as soon as James gets his hand around himself again, Ed springs back into the forefront of his mind, and so many tantalising images are lurking in the shadows. He tries to go slow, tries to tease himself. He lets himself think about Ed's lips some more—how he might kiss, how he might hold James. He'd be firm, James thinks, steady and confident, even if James was falling apart. He pictures Ed naked, and won't let himself go any further, lingering on isolated little snapshots in his mind. Ed's biceps. His muscly thighs. What his cock might look like. James knows that he's circumcised; had that knowledge forced upon him because Ed got it done as an adult and talked about it shamelessly, much to James's distress. James finds himself wondering what his cock might feel like in his hand, or maybe even in his _mouth_ —he pictures himself sinking to his knees to suck him off, and squirms at the thought.

It feels worse to do it this way, slow and deliberate instead of just letting his mind jump wherever it wants. That felt uncontrollable, but this feels like something he could stop. Something he shouldn't be doing and yet he _is_ , and it's a violation and he knows it, but in his current state he doesn't have the self-discipline to resist.

He thinks about how it would feel, having his mouth full of Ed's cock, his lips stretched around it. How Ed might look down at him, whether he might put a hand on the back of his head to guide him, maybe wind it through his hair. Maybe he would be a bit rough, if James said he was okay with it—and James thinks he _would_ be okay with it—he thinks he might like it, Ed losing control and thrusting into his mouth. He doesn't know if he'd really be able to handle that, but for some reason it's nice to imagine; Ed using him that way, just taking what he wants.

James tries to tease himself but it's almost impossible, partly because he's so desperate and partly because even a light touch is overwhelming. He's finally allowed himself to tighten the grip of his hand when suddenly it's shocked away by the sound of his buzzer.

He lies there frozen for a handful of seconds, struggling to force his brain to understand what that noise means and why it's sent a chill through him as intense as an ice bath (though the overriding feeling is still pure, painful desire, already warming him right back up again). Then the buzzer goes again, and finally he manages to make himself react, dragging himself through the fog of arousal and getting to his feet. His phone pings from the coffee table and he peers at it. He can't focus enough to actually read the text but his stomach flips as he registers Ed's name.

He sways, his legs like jelly. He fumbles for the blanket to wipe himself off with, and he feels gross about it but panic is beginning to rise in him now, blurry round the edges but gradually getting sharper and triggering some instinctive shame response. The buzzer goes a third time and he stumbles off towards it, the movements of his body feeling worryingly unreliable. The constant ache in his cock reminds him how _wrong_ all of this is, and he's starting to think there must be something seriously weird about those biscuits, something more than just a run-of-the-mill aphrodisiac. Logically he knows it's probably some kind of drug, but it feels so potent and bizarre that he's beginning to think of it as magic, as though he's been put under some sort of spell. (Or curse, more like.)

The video feed on the intercom confirms his suspicions: it's Ed outside, peering into the camera, and when James sees him he feels a powerful and extremely confusing rush of feelings that he's far too spacey to try and puzzle out. His lust rises above everything, soothing the anxiety he feels at someone showing up while he's feeling this way, and even dulling the particular brand of panic induced by the fact that it's _Ed_ , the person who just moments ago was the subject of some completely unacceptable fantasies. James's body simply doesn't seem to care too much about all of that, pleading with him to be touched again, excited by being treated to the sight of Ed in real life after the things he was picturing. Something crazy inside of him is telling him to start jerking off again, even as Ed unknowingly looks at him through the one-way camera. He feels sick with guilt at the thought.

He fumbles with the receiver. "Ed, go away," is not what he _means_ to say, but it's what comes out. He has to convince Ed that everything's fine, and he knows this is not the way to go about it, but he can't think straight and all he wants is for him to leave.

That's a lie: what he _really_ wants is for Ed to come up here and help him through this, and maybe that's what he needs, maybe that's why masturbating didn't work. Maybe he needs the touch of another person. He imagines a scene that could have come straight out of porn; Ed sidling in, throwing James down onto the bed with no preamble, curing him with his hands and his mouth and his cock.

"Hello to you too," Ed says back, and the easy, pleasant tone of his voice makes James grip the receiver so hard his hand cramps. "What's going on? You all right?"

"I'm fine," says James, knowing how unconvincing he sounds.

"You don't sound fine," Ed tells him, and James almost crumbles, almost blurts out all the ways he's not fine and all the things he needs to make him feel better. He feels sweaty and woozy. "You ate something weird, yeah?"

"Yeah," says James automatically, and then, "no, I mean—I'm fine, Ed. You didn't need to come all the way over here."

"I know," says Ed lightly, "but I'm here now, so can you let me in please?"

Abruptly, James realises his finger is hovering over the buzzer, and he jerks back, alarmed. " _No,_ " he says, much too harsh, and even on the grainy screen he can see the concern and confusion on Ed's face. Furrowed brows, pursed lips. 

"James, you're being _super_ weird," Ed informs him, and at that, James panics and simply hangs up.

Arousal is pumping even more fiercely through him now, or at least that's how it feels, though he wouldn't have thought it possible. Seeing Ed, speaking to him while he's in such a state—it's just made it a hundred times worse. He makes a frustrated sound, wobbles back to the sofa and throws himself onto it again. He does so face down this time which turns out to be a terrible mistake, because his hard cock presses into the cushions and instantly he's rubbing it up against them, unable to stop himself, a humiliated groan tearing its way from his throat as he squeezes his eyes shut and his hips continue grinding away of their own accord.

He gives in, too tired and desperate to do anything else, even though it feels gross and dirty and pathetic and he's still thinking about Ed because he can't help it and that only makes him feel worse.

Then there's a knock on the door.

He swears out loud—Ed must've snuck into the building after somebody else, and he realises he should've seen that coming, but his brain feels so _slow_ , like every thought is making its way through some kind of infernal obstacle course and it takes mammoth amounts of focus to follow anything through. His hips are still thrusting in a sort of mechanical way, and it takes great effort to stop. He forces himself to roll over.

"James, I'm genuinely worried, mate," comes Ed's voice, loud and clear, and James swears again, looking down at himself. 

He wants so desperately to just keep touching himself, wonders if Ed would eventually just give up and go away if James ignored him. But he knows he's going to have to convince him he's okay, and if he's going to do that he needs to put some clothes on. Such a simple task, and yet it feels so difficult in his current condition that he can't seem to move at all.

Then Ed says his name, and once again that panic manages to pierce its way through and kick him into action.

"Hang on!" he yells.

He spots the stained blanket and stuffs it down the side of the sofa, feeling his cheeks flame as he does so; he needs to hide the evidence. He sets about trying to locate all the items of clothing he's flung around the room, and force them back onto his body even though it's so uncomfortable it almost _hurts_ , as if the fabric is scratching his skin. His erection hasn't flagged one bit, which is another reminder that something is seriously wrong here, but all he can do is try and stuff it back into his trousers—he doesn't bother with his underwear, hiding it alongside the blanket instead. It's enough of a challenge as it is, the stimulation sending flurries of pleasure through him so distracting he almost drops everything in favour of getting off again. 

He wonders if one more time would do it, and then he'd be able to answer the door like a normal human being, and the nightmare would be over.

Ed recognises that it's a slight overreaction, to drop everything and head straight to James's flat. But there's not actually all that much to drop, and he wasn't all that far away, and he just has this intuition telling him that something's _wrong_. He doesn't really know what he's expecting. Maybe the biscuits have just disagreed with James, in which case what can he really do besides offer to go buy him some indigestion tablets or something? But he has a strong feeling that it's more than that, and James's bizarre reaction has not done anything to quell his anxiety.

He doesn't know what he's expecting, but it's not this. James looks...he looks like Ed has never seen him before, which is possibly the most alarming thing of all. He's seen James ill. He's seen James soul-destroyingly depressed. He's seen him having a panic attack, and he's seen him utterly off his head. But he hasn't seen James like this. It's _unsettling_. At first glance he does seem like he might be ill—he's certainly extremely clammy-looking, and slightly unsteady on his feet. His appearance is not a million miles away from that of someone who's been in bed for days with some debilitating flu or something, though he doesn't look as _bad_ as that, just a little weak and flushed and dishevelled. Ed realises then that it's more than just his messy hair and sweatiness that's giving this impression—he also appears to have his t-shirt on both inside-out and backwards, and doesn't seem to be aware.

James opens the door slightly wider, and that's when Ed realises he's holding a cushion in front of his crotch.

"Okay...what's going on," says Ed uncertainly, trying to edge his way inside, but James blocks the door with a wild look in his eyes. His pupils are enormous. "Were those biscuits laced with something? Like, Viagra?" Ed tries to joke, though honestly, an erection is the _only_ reason he can come up with for the cushion's placement.

"No," says James, and then, flustered, "well, not that I've ever—but that just—gives you a boner, right? It doesn't make you—" He cuts himself off, searching for words, and it seems to take considerable effort. In the end he just says vaguely, "Feel...things..."

"What sort of things," says Ed, eyeing him uncertainly. If he's interpreted James's words correctly, then he has in fact _admitted_ to having a boner, which throws Ed off significantly, along with the fact that the admission was almost in passing, by-the-by, somehow _not_ the most pressing issue.

"Just," says James, looking caught out, "you know."

"What? Horny?" Ed supplies, and almost laughs, more with bewilderment than amusement. "That sort of goes hand-in-hand with having a boner, mate. Surely this isn't your first rodeo."

James turns pinker, and more agitated. "You don't understand," he says crossly. "Just—go, all right?" 

This is when Ed fully registers just how upset he is, and the situation—absurd though it is—suddenly loses its comedic value. He can't just leave, not when James is in distress, even if the reasoning is a little outside of his remit. He can't leave until he's figured out what's actually going on here, and at least attempted to help out.

His mind immediately supplies various ways in which he could _help out_ with such a problem, and he quashes them quickly.

"So what happened?" he asks, putting one foot over the threshold so that James can't actually shut the door on him, and James looks distraught when he realises Ed has no intention of doing as he's been told. "You ate some biscuits. And they made you horny."

James kicks at the doorframe, a sudden little explosive gesture of embarrassed frustration. "Yes," he says then, sullenly, avoiding eye contact.

"Right. And what sort of biscuits were these?" Ed asks. "Were they, perhaps, small pills of some kind that you mistook for biscuits because you were hungry?"

" _Ed_ ," says James darkly. "They were biscuits. Some independent baker sent them. They were addressed to us! To Off Menu."

"Okay, okay," says Ed, holding up his hands. "Did they have any weird ingredients?"

"No!" says James indignantly. "I wouldn't have eaten them if..."

Ed heaves a sigh, reaching up to adjust his cap. He's just trying to formulate some sort of plan of action when he realises James has trailed off, and when he looks at him he sees that his expression has suddenly gone all hazy, like he's somewhere far away. Curious, Ed narrows in on it, tracking James's gaze as it slides lazily from Ed's bicep down to his hips, where Ed suspects his shirt may have ridden up when he raised his arm. It's absolutely _absurd_ to think that James could be checking him out—and yet, that's quite blatantly what he's doing. For a moment Ed is so stunned he can't do anything at all, but he manages to recover from the shock in order to take advantage of James's distraction. He nudges the door wider and slips past James, quick as a flash.

" _No,_ " says James when he realises what's happened. His expression regains some clarity, turning panicked. "Fuck—Ed, I _really_ need you to not be here right now."

"Then why all the texts and calls for help?" Ed asks, knowing he's exaggerating a little but not particularly caring. He can't help feeling that this is getting more and more interesting by the second.

James makes a frustrated noise and stomps off in the direction of the living room. Ed trails after him, watches him throw himself down onto the sofa with another angry noise. The curtains are closed, which seems odd for the middle of the day, especially when it's so nice and sunny outside.

"Listen," Ed attempts. "I'm just—concerned, all right? I don't know what's going on."

"Well, that makes two of us," says James, tightly, and Ed notes how he adjusts the cushion on his lap in a particular kind of way, a way that makes it look like he'd prefer to be humping it instead. Ed pushes _that_ image out of his mind and tries, once again, to figure out what to do.

He approaches cautiously, noting the plastic tray of biscuits on the coffee table. They look perfectly innocent and he can't help wondering if James is—well, not making this up, exactly, but exaggerating somehow. Being dramatic, like he often is about things. How can _biscuits_ reduce someone to this? But then, James is so clearly humiliated by the way he's behaving and Ed knows he wouldn't be acting this way if he could help it; he's got far too much shame.

James is looking more and more pained the closer Ed gets, but he says nothing, so Ed sits gingerly beside him on the sofa, keeping a decent amount of distance between them. James goes very tense and looks like he can't decide whether to move closer or further away.

"I'm gonna—" says Ed gently, "uh—can I just check that you're, like, okay?"

"I'm extremely not okay," James snaps, "I thought we'd established that."

"Yes, all right," says Ed patiently, "but I think I should probably check your pulse? And your temperature, and things like that."

"Oh, are you a medical professional now?" huffs James, and then Ed reaches out to take him by the wrist and he makes a startled, anguished sound. "Oh, god, _please_ don't touch me," he spits out, but doesn't yank his arm away, lets Ed gently ease it off his lap with a thumb and forefinger looped around his hot little wrist.

Ed lays James's arm between them on the sofa cushions and nudges two fingertips against the soft, delicate skin of the underside of his wrist, immediately feeling his frantic pulse beneath the tendons. 

"Fuck," he says quietly, because it's absolutely _racing_ , and he darts a nervous glance at James, who is wincing and turning away, his other hand white-knuckled against the cushion in his lap.

He tries to calm down, fixing his eyes on the second hand of James's wall clock and focusing on counting each beat. After fifteen seconds James shifts beside him and clenches his fist. Ed doesn't make it to thirty; James snatches his hand back just before, as though the mere touch of fingertips-to-wrist is too much contact for him to bear.

"All right," says Ed. "So it's like, maybe just over a hundred? That's probably all right. It's not astronomical."

"Thank you, _doctor_ ," says James, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

"Do you have a thermometer?"

"No," says James grouchily.

"Okay, well, this'll have to do, then," says Ed, moving closer and, in one quick movement, placing his hand over James's forehead.

James makes a sound that resembles a whine, and Ed feels him lean into the touch for a split second before he shrinks back from it. He tries not to flatter himself with how James is reacting to such minor touches—clearly this is just a side effect, and probably skin-to-skin contact with _anybody_ right now would be an issue. Without thinking, Ed slides his other hand round the back of James's head, fingers slipping through soft, damp curls to cradle his skull and hold him still. The sound James makes at _that_ is bordering on a whimper, and it almost makes Ed forget what he's doing.

"Just a second," he says tightly, not really knowing how to judge this; his own body temperature is probably a little on the high side anyway, after rushing here in the summer heat, and being in the company of James when he's like this hasn't exactly helped. Still, James's forehead feels hot against his palm, damp with sweat. Quickly, he lets go. "All right. You _might_ be feverish but I'm not sure."

"I'm so glad you're here," James snips at him. "What would I do without all of this expert medical knowledge?"

"I don't _think_ you need to go to a doctor," Ed decides. James has retained the ability to be sarcastic, which has got to mean he's fine, right? 

"Well, good," says James, shifting against the sofa once again. "Not that I'd go _anyway_ , in this condition. Are we done here?"

Ed hesitates. He really wants to believe that James is fine. His heart rate's certainly high, but it's probably only just outside of the normal range, and if his temperature's up he can always just take a painkiller or two to bring it down. The biscuits _might_ have been laced with something, and they should probably follow that up at some point because what the fuck, but it certainly doesn't seem like it's anything dangerous. Maybe James is just particularly responsive to whatever it is. Anyway, Ed can't exactly blame him for not wanting to rush to the doctor when his main symptom is an unexpected erection and the suspected culprit is a packet of biscuits. It _is_ fairly ridiculous.

And anyway, Ed really doesn't think he needs immediate medical attention, just someone to keep an eye on him over the next couple of hours and make sure nothing gets any worse. Perhaps he could ask Google for help, though he's not entirely sure what search terms he'd have to input.

"I'm gonna stick around," he decides, and James's expression is absolutely agonised. "Listen, it doesn't feel right to just leave you like this!"

James grits his teeth for a moment. "I understand, and you're a very good friend," he says tightly. "But _please_ just leave me like this. Whatever's happening here, it's _not_ going to be improved by an audience."

This gives Ed an idea, and he foolishly doesn't give himself a chance to think it through before voicing it. "You probably just need to get it out of your system," he says. "You know? Maybe you should just—go into your room and do what you need to do." 

James makes a choked, incredulous sound.

"I'll put some music on and pretend it's not happening, it'll be fine," says Ed lightly, and he thinks he might've been trying to joke around—at least, he doesn't _think_ he's entirely serious, because surely it can't possibly be so bad that James would take him up on such a suggestion. But suddenly, looking at James's expression, his death grip on the cushion in his lap, his twitchy, stilted movements—suddenly he's not so sure, and the thought of James _masturbating in the next room_ hits him like a freight train and he feels the smile drop from his face.

"I," says James, after a tortured moment, "I already—uh, tried. That."

And if Ed thought he was already struggling to cope with the situation, this _really_ throws him for a loop. It's a feeling not unlike trotting confidently down a flight of stairs and then missing a step; the ground vanishes from under him and leaves him to fall abruptly on his arse.

"What?" he says, stupidly, because it seems to be the only word coming to mind.

" _I already tried that,_ " says James viciously, avoiding his gaze. "And it's not—it didn't help at _all_."

Ed's mouth feels dry. He can't help picturing it—the image just invades his brain: James sprawled right here on the sofa, frantically getting himself off, fully-clothed with his hand down his pants. Then he reminds himself of James's dishevelled appearance and the closed curtains, and his brain adjusts the image accordingly—James _naked_ and sprawled on the sofa, panting and desperate with his hand working quick and eager, little jerks of his wrist, cock sliding through his fist—coming all over himself—and yet _still hard_. Wanting _more._

And how soon after that had Ed shown up? It can't have been long at all, and the thought makes something tighten in his chest.

"Right," he hears himself say, faintly. "I see."

He sits there for a few painful seconds, feeling like he's been winded. Eventually he leans forward and picks up the packet of biscuits, mainly just for something to do. The silence between them seems very loud as he turns the packet over in his hand and inspects the label. He reads the name of the bakery, its address, and the ingredients—James is right, nothing unusual, though he supposes someone could've snuck any number of things in there and simply not declared it. He reads the nutritional information. 

He re-reads the nutritional information, focusing on the carb content.

"How many did you eat?" he asks.

"Four," James admits, after a slightly sheepish pause.

Ed laughs. "Of course you did," he says fondly.

He happened to check his levels on his way over here. They were pretty good, and the biscuits seem to be fairly light. He does a quick calculation in his head. He puts the biscuits back on the coffee table and reaches into his pocket for his insulin pen.

"What are you doing?" says James immediately, sounding deeply, viscerally alarmed.

Ed says nothing, focusing instead on getting out a new needle cap and carefully attaching it. 

"Ed, what are you doing," says James again, low and urgent.

"Hang on a second," says Ed, concentrating on turning the dial to the correct dose, double checking it. He's finding it difficult to think straight, and he finds himself wondering if he could've been affected by the whatever-it-is already, like he's got a contact high.

James goes quiet, and Ed leans back to lift up the hem of his shirt and expose his hip. He can feel the heat of James's gaze the whole time, and it's truly unsettling, given his formerly invariable habit of politely averting his eyes whenever Ed does this. Ed sticks the needle in and administers the insulin, slow and steady though his hands are sweating. He cleans up. He reaches for the biscuits again.

"Right," he says.

" _Ed_ ," says James desperately, watching in horror as Ed removes a biscuit from the packet and pops it into his mouth.

He doesn't know what he's expecting—some sort of dizzying high to hit him the second he bites into it?—but it's sort of a let-down. It behaves like a regular biscuit. A crisp crunch and a delicate sweetness. There's an interesting flavour he can't quite identify, but he's not really focusing that much on how it tastes. He's not even hungry. He's just—completing a task.

On the second biscuit, James attempts to stop him, but he's hindered by his own prudishness, needing to keep the cushion on his lap, and it's easy to overpower him—Ed grips his forearm firmly and lowers it onto the sofa, holding it there, and James lets out a sort of squeak and freezes up. By the third biscuit he's squirming under the strength of Ed's grip.

"Ed, please let go," he says finally, quiet and urgent, getting louder when Ed ignores him and twisting his arm as if he's trying to give himself a Chinese burn. "Ed, promise I won't—just stop touching me _please_ , I can't—"

Ed lets go slowly, watching James out of the corner of his eye, wary of any sudden movements, but James just snatches his hand back and returns it to the cushion, clutching tightly. He doesn't try again, just sits and watches helplessly as Ed finally finishes off the last biscuit.

"There," says Ed, brushing a couple of crumbs from his lap. "Now we're both in the same boat."

He turns to look at James properly now, and is surprised that the simple action of moving his head makes the room go a little swimmy around him. He offers James a reassuring smile, and James blinks at him, uncomprehending. 

"Wha—" says James slowly. "Ed. _Why._ "

"Because," says Ed, confused that he's not getting it when it makes perfect sense. Surely it was the only logical thing he could do. Surely James can appreciate that. "You were embarrassed." James just looks at him, bewildered. "Now we'll both be embarrassed, and then—then it won't be so embarrassing, right?"

He doesn't know if the biscuits are already having some effect on his brain but he feels like he's not putting this into words as eloquently as he'd like. James is still looking at him like he's totally lost his mind, which is annoying, because Ed is doing him a favour, really.

"How do you feel?" asks James uncertainly, like he's not sure he actually wants to know the answer.

"Fine," says Ed, but he's not sure that's entirely true. He can feel his heart rate speeding up, just enough to be noticeable, while at the same time he feels like his mind is...slowing down. Like his thoughts are growing cloudy and indistinct and he's struggling to grasp at them, feeling them slipping away each time he tries. "Sort of syrupy," he adds, without meaning to, without even really knowing what that _means_.

James looks all worried. It makes him look very sweet. He looks vulnerable, and Ed remembers all the other times when he's seen James vulnerable, the times when Ed has been able to look after him and make him feel better. Sometimes Ed gives him a hug, and gets to feel him soften up under his hands, melt into the touch like it's something he needed even if he'd been denying it to himself. 

"It's okay," he says, and his voice sounds a little slurred.

"No it's not," grumbles James.

Ed feels very hot all of a sudden. He flings off his cap. He toes off his shoes. He very much wants to take off more clothing than that, but he's still got enough sense to tell him that would be inappropriate. Everything feels pleasantly fuzzy and unreal, and if he relaxes his eyes the room starts to shift and slide. He can feel heat pooling inside of him, and it's a familiar feeling, but the _speed_ of it is new, and almost certainly unnatural. He feels his cock thickening up in his trousers and it happens so fast there's absolutely no time to think about it. It just happens, from one second to the next.

"Oh," he says, and he can't help but laugh a little, because he feels all lightheaded and out of it and this is so _weird_ , and James is looking at him like it's the end of the world, which is silly.

"Oh _no_ ," says James, and his eyes dart downwards to Ed's crotch, and that makes Ed feel _very_ strange, having James so blatantly looking at his cock like that, even if it is covered. 

That's when the desire hits him, and it does so with the weight and force of a sledgehammer. It feels like every part of his brain and body is suddenly flooded with it, a need to touch and be touched. It's so overwhelming and it comes over him so quickly that he almost feels nauseated. He looks at James and the feeling courses through him even more urgently, to the point that he's shifting closer instinctively and has to stop himself to get his bearings.

Somehow he's still got enough sense to recognise his own idiocy. He thought—he doesn't know what he thought. He thought that whatever it was, they'd still be capable of just waiting it out until it inevitably wore off on its own. Maybe he even foolishly thought it could become an amusing anecdote someday. He certainly didn't fully think through the idea of deliberately eating something laced with some sort of _sex drug_ while in the company of someone he _knows_ he's attracted to, and right now that seems insanely stupid, because he's looking at James and he wants—he wants _so much_ —

"Oh, fuck," he says quietly, awed. "How've you been managing to just _sit_ there?"

He's lunging forwards before he even knows what he's doing, like all of a sudden his body is guiding his movements instead of his brain, which lags behind, struggling to keep up. There's a flicker of doubt when he realises what he's doing—a distant awareness of all the reasons he's never done this before—but then his lips touch James's and pleasure thrills through him and nothing else seems to matter. He might've stopped to apologise, might've wondered if maybe the reason James managed not to do this was because he didn't actually _want_ to—only James responds to the kiss immediately, sighing against his mouth like he's _grateful_ , like this is exactly what he's been needing. Ed is glad to give it to him, especially when it makes it feel like fireworks are exploding in his veins.

Right away it's not enough just to have their mouths on each other. He grabs the cushion from James's lap, flings it across the room, and then bullies James down onto his back so he can lie on top of him, get as much of their bodies in contact as possible. James whimpers and arches up against him, and Ed feels pure pleasure flare up inside of him, so bright and hot that he forgets how to breathe for a second.

"Oh my god," he says against James's mouth.

"I told you," says James breathlessly, but no, no he absolutely fucking _didn't_.

James is reeling. Being touched like this when he's had to just sit there acting like he's got it under control, when actually he's been fucking _crawling out of his skin_ —he feels like he just up and leaves his body for a moment, the pleasure's so intense. Just having Ed's fingers on his wrist earlier, his hand on his forehead—he felt like he could've come in his pants if he'd only increased the pressure of the cushion against his lap a little bit, moved his hips once or twice. And _this_ —all of the anger and confusion he felt when Ed ate the biscuits melts away in an instant and he feels like some kind of robot, programmed to seek pleasure, not a thought in his brain except _want_ and _need_. He opens his mouth and slides his tongue against Ed's, opens his legs as much as he can within the confines of the sofa so Ed can slot himself between them and shove up against him, hot and close and wonderful.

"Clothes off, clothes off, please," James chants when their lips part for a second. 

There's no chance of him pretending to be even remotely okay now that Ed's lit this fire in him; all of his attempts at composure have gone out the window. Having Ed on top of him is incredible and he doesn't want it to stop, but he's got enough sense left in his scrambled brain to know that it would be even better if they were naked. He's burning up, and the need to be skin-on-skin is dizzying. Ed makes a pained noise and kisses him some more, hips thrusting clumsily back and forth. The feeling is dulled by the layers of fabric between them but it's still _so much_.

"Can't—stop," Ed gets out, with a huff of a laugh, and James finds himself laughing too in spite of himself, stuttered and breathy against Ed's cheek.

"I know, but— _clothes off_ ," James stresses, twisting about beneath him, trying to get enough space to peel off his t-shirt. 

Ed seems to go through some sort of internal struggle and then finally straightens up, giving them both enough space to begin undressing, flinging their shirts aside. Ed gets his fly open, but James doesn't get a chance to undo his before Ed suddenly covers him with his body once again, and his impatience is thrilling, as is the feeling of his erection through his boxers, bumping heavily up against James's. But James needs _more._ Ed is kissing him and he can hardly bear to make him stop, but—

"Please, Ed, _please_ ," he hears himself say, and it's utterly humiliating, "wanna feel it properly—need—"

To his immense relief, Ed nods vehemently in response to this instead of mocking him for how absolutely inane and wanton he sounds. "Yeah, we need—" he agrees, looking as scattered apart as James feels, like it's difficult for him to even get a grasp of the actions required to remove the rest of his clothes.

Finally he makes a frustrated noise and then heaves himself off the sofa to get his trousers off, while James wriggles out of his own while lying on his back—he shivers as his cock is exposed, remembering that he's not wearing underwear, and he glances up self-consciously to see that Ed's naked, which causes further parts of his brain to switch off. His body floods with the urge to touch and taste, excitement fizzing through his veins.

The one remaining part of his brain that's still functioning reminds him—sudden and cruel—that Ed's arousal is nothing more than a physiological response to whatever it is that's been inflicted upon them. He just needs bodily contact; it's nothing to do with _James_. There's a corresponding ache in his heart that feels abrupt and harsh in the midst of all this bone-tingling pleasure, the contrast disorienting, but then—

His gaze drifts up to Ed's face and the look in his eyes is _hungry_ , and the fact that they're no longer touching each other is absolutely agonising. The physical overrides the emotional, and like a shot James is upright and flinging himself at Ed with such force that Ed loses his balance and the two of them stagger about, clutching at each other, laughing breathlessly against each other's mouths at the clumsiness of it. Ed's hands slide down to James's arse, groping him, and a thrill runs through him at the crudeness of it, Ed's big hands grabbing at him like—like there's something _desirable_ there. James wants to believe it—oh, _god_ , he wants to believe it _so much_ , but there's a distant voice in his mind reminding him that none of this is real, that Ed's just riding a senseless high.

They stumble against each other again, dizzy, and James thinks he's the one who trips but they're both so unsteady on their feet he can't be sure. Either way they go down, and then they're on the floor, which feels a little unorthodox, but James is hardly complaining, delighted by the slight roughness of the carpet all along his back and the firm heat of Ed's body all along his front. He can really sprawl out like this and spread his legs wide, which he realises he's done without thinking, and he feels a flush of heat at the shamelessness of it, even though Ed responds by thrusting up against him immediately. It might be equally shameless but—he remembers—it's not the same, because Ed didn't actually _want_ this until about two minutes ago. There's no weight behind his actions; he's just doing as his body tells him, easy and careless because it doesn't _mean_ anything. 

He tries to cling to that knowledge, because it feels like it would be so easy to lose sight of the fact that this isn't real—it feels like he could get lost in it, and that's _scary_. But then Ed's burying his face in James's neck and kissing his throat, and it feels like he _wants_ him, and James can't help but moan, hitching his legs apart even further, until his muscles ache, and Ed is bucking against him, clumsy and messy, cock sliding unevenly alongside his own. James grinds up against him with equal enthusiasm, utterly rhythmless, lifting his arse off the floor and churning his hips in awkward, desperate little movements, rubbing himself off against Ed's stomach as much as anything. 

Ed makes a sound in his throat, and then _bites_ James, and it's just a nip of teeth against James's neck but James cries out, writhing beneath him, suddenly barrelling towards orgasm despite such unsophisticated attempts at stimulation. Ed reacts by suddenly raising himself up enough to hold James still, pinning him by the arms so that he can try to guide their frenzied thrusting into something more satisfying, but the moment he grabs hold of James's arms James loses it, all thoughts whiting out into blissful nothingness as he strains up against Ed's body and spills his release over both of their stomachs.

" _Fuck_ ," Ed spits out, and James is so shaken that it takes him a moment to realise what's happened—that Ed's come too, surely simultaneously. That means that all of the wetness on their skin isn't _just_ from him which is something of a relief, and also intensely exciting. He realises with a distant sense of discomfort that it's just like before: orgasm doesn't feel anything like it usually does—relief swiftly followed by regret and exhaustion and an immediate loss of interest in anything sexual. Instead, he immediately feels electrified at the feeling of Ed's come slicking his skin and the sight of his own on Ed's belly.

Then Ed sort of collapses on top of him, and even though James is so hot he feels like he could melt, Ed's weight on him feels good, so he squirms happily under him, cock still hard and digging into Ed's hip.

"Fuck," says Ed again, quiet and amazed, and it sounds like he's smiling against James's ear.

James makes a vague sound of agreement, and swivels his hips lazily, focusing on the way Ed's body feels pressing down on his tender cock—the friction feels different now, almost too much, and yet not quite. The increased sensitivity sends a buzz of something almost like pain through his nerves, something just on the edge of it, but numbed. Whatever it is, it's not at all unpleasant, so he continues to shimmy about beneath Ed, currently too giddy to feel ashamed of his neediness. He can't believe something that felt that good still wasn't _enough_ , but he's still champing at the bit, eager for more. He feels feral, he feels like he's in _heat_.

"God," says Ed, though it's more of a groan than a word. Suddenly he's gripping James by the shoulder, firm. "Stop a second."

James makes a whiny sound—Ed is so _strong_ —and his hips continue to roll in jerky, awkward circles, until Ed lifts himself up enough that James's cock is no longer in contact with him. Then he grips James by the hip for good measure, holding him still. The feeling makes James's cock twitch against his wet stomach.

"I'm just trying to—think," Ed says tightly, but he's staring down at James's cock like he can't take his eyes off it, and the directness of his gaze would make James squirm if he weren't being pinned down so effectively.

"Yeah," says James vaguely, not knowing how or why he's bothering to do so, merely agreeing in case it means Ed will come to his conclusion more quickly and go back to letting James rub off against his stomach.

"You still need to—?"

"Yeah. Obviously."

"Me too," says Ed, and even though that makes perfect sense considering James's previous experiences and whatever the hell it is they're both dealing with here, James still feels a wash of relief. In the back of his mind there's a glimmer of something, some understanding of why Ed did what he did, but he can't quite grasp it. "Maybe we need to—" Ed starts, and then breaks off.

"Do it again," James suggests.

"Yeah," says Ed immediately, breathless, sinking down just a little. "I mean maybe we need to like—"

"Yes," James interrupts, not even knowing what Ed was about to say, and he loops his arms over Ed's shoulders and pulls him down closer, so their hips finally collide again. He feels his cock nudge Ed's belly, and ruts up against him indulgently. They're both so hot and sticky, and it's gross and _amazing_ and James loves it.

"Yeah," says Ed, as if they've actually managed to articulate anything at all, and then kisses him, and it's violent and sloppy, neither of them thinking about making it good.

When they part, Ed is looking at him with an intensity so ferocious James feels anxious.

"So like," James says, heart like a jackhammer in his chest, "how?"

"However," says Ed instantly. "Anything."

"God," says James quietly. He doesn't even know how to begin thinking about this _seriously_ —it's always been such an impossibility. A no-go zone. The situation isn't helped by the foggy state of his brain. Ideas swirl around but he can't actually let himself think about any of them properly, his mind merely glancing off each one, until the memory of his earlier fantasy drifts to the forefront, making him squirm.

He wonders how to voice the desire, but before he has a chance to even try, Ed suddenly says, "I want to fuck you." All in a rush, like he couldn't stop himself. Right away he looks slightly startled that the words have come out of his mouth. "God, sorry—or—whatever you want, anything's fine, I—"

"No, that's—let's do that," says James quickly, before Ed gives him too much of an opportunity to object. God, he realises suddenly, he _wants_ that. Even his cock, currently still trapped between their bodies, reacts positively to the idea, and he wonders if Ed can feel it throbbing more insistently against his skin.

He doesn't know if he'd just agree to anything in his current state, or if there's a part of him that's always secretly wanted Ed to—do that to him. It's frightening to not be sure. There's a sizeable part of him that's quite happy to pin all of the blame on the stupid biscuits, but he knows that's not entirely fair. Of course he's wanted to have sex with Ed for a long time, but he's always been deliberately hazy on the details. He never would've let himself imagine being—being _penetrated_. He tries to be somewhat clinical about it but his brain, over-excited, steers swiftly and violently into filth: _fucked,_ he corrects himself, _you want to be fucked. You want Ed's big cock in your arse and you want him to fuck you with it until you can't remember your own name._

He cringes at the thoughts he's having; blushes under Ed's gaze like he can read his mind. It all feels utterly uncontrollable and that's _scary_. He's spent so long, so fucking long trying to keep all of this inside, and now it feels like it's all just bursting out of him without his permission. It's so, so difficult to even begin to _think_ about keeping himself in check; things just keep _happening_ and it's only afterwards that he thinks he shouldn't have said that—shouldn't have done that—it's too _late_ , Ed already knows exactly how desperate he is.

It should feel better that Ed wants it too, but it doesn't, because he knows it's not a genuine desire. It's not the same if it's not something he's been quietly yearning for for years.

James manages to pull himself out of the depths of need he's drowning in, drags his head above the surface for a few painful moments, and finds that he's suddenly incensed by Ed's decision to eat the biscuits in the first place. How could he _willingly_ subject himself to this hell, when James had no choice? It's as if this is just some wacky adventure for Ed, whereas for James it feels like a kind of exquisitely calculated torment. 

Ed forces himself to pull away from James again so that they can try to actually talk about this. He wants them to actually have a chance to _do_ it instead of just getting so wound up by the mere idea that they end up coming all over each other again. And he's got to make sure James _really_ wants it, he reminds himself, he's got to, because these aren't exactly normal circumstances. Their judgement must be pretty severely hindered. They're under the influence of _something_ , and he may not know what it is, but it's fucking powerful—it's actually scaring him how he feels, like he's clinging desperately to the last shreds of his self-control. He can't let go of them completely, as tempting as it feels; he's got to try to stay calm. He's got to make some semblance of an effort, especially with James in such a state.

"You really want that?" he asks seriously. "Are you sure?"

James laughs in a strange, hollow way. "I'm sure."

"It's just—we're kind of out of our minds right now," says Ed. "Feels like the issue of consent is becoming slightly blurry."

"Yeah," says James, looking agitated, "but—yeah but it's fine, if it's—you know. If it's what we need."

"Yeah," says Ed, letting himself be convinced. "I think it might be what we need." 

There's a part of him that wonders if James would be _this_ up for it if he didn't already want it on some level—but surely that's just wishful thinking. Maybe he's just trying to tell himself anything that'll make this morally acceptable. Perhaps James doesn't even know what his real feelings _are_ underneath it all. It's certainly getting harder for Ed to distinguish—it feels like he's _always_ wanted James this badly, so badly his bones ache, so badly he feels like he's hovering on a precipice above a fatal drop and perfectly happy to go over if need be.

But he can't. He has to keep it together. He has to stay _sane_ , even though it feels impossible.

"I mean, I know it's—a lot, but maybe we've just got to," he says. "You know? Maybe we've just got to do it and then we'll feel better and this'll all be over, yeah? And we can—we can just never speak of it again."

He feels his anxiety rise at the thought—is he even _capable_ of that? How can he have sex with James and then just continue on with his life as though it never happened?

"Uh huh," says James, but he doesn't really sound like he's listening. He's trying to shift up against him and Ed wants nothing more than to cover him with his body once again and grind him into the floor until his mind clears, but at the same time he doesn't _want_ his mind to clear, because maybe then he'll realise what a questionable idea this is. Maybe he'll properly recognise just how much he's taking advantage of the situation, and then he'll be too considerate and sensible to actually go through with it.

He has to try and focus. He puts his hands on James's hips again to hold him down as he straightens up properly, even though it feels like _actual pain_ shoots through him as he does it. He's further distracted by the pleased little noise that James makes, which causes his mind to fill with images of holding James down as he fucks him, keeping him still as he thrusts deep. He fights to bury such thoughts, keeping his eyes firmly fixed on James's face instead of his leaking cock framed by Ed's hands on his bony hips. James squirms, and Ed feels his hipbones shifting minutely under his hands.

He tries to think about it all from James's point of view. He has to be sure James is honestly okay with this, even if it's just as a means to an end. He doesn't want him to do anything he's not fully prepared for, anything he's going to regret horrendously once they've come down. He feels a pang in his heart at the thought. Maybe he shouldn't risk it. If he was being decent and sensible, he definitely wouldn't risk it. James means far too much to him.

"Ed, yeah," says James, breathless and impatient, "can you please just—just fuck me." 

Ed's brain falters and just like that there's no longer any question in his mind about whether or not he's going to go through with this. 

James swallows, squeezing his eyes shut. His cheeks are crimson. "I mean can we just—" he stumbles over his words, "the sooner we do it the sooner it's over with, right? And then we can—can get on with pretending it never happened. Just— _please_. I don't know how much longer I can..."

James trails off, and Ed tries to think, in a detached, clinical manner, about what they're about to do. It's truly disconcerting how difficult it is, how much effort he has to apply in order to get any one thought to stick—and to keep his brain from sliding headlong into pornographic images that make him just want to shove into James _immediately_. 

"Do you have condoms?" he manages to ask.

James's face falls, and Ed knows what he's going to say before he says it: "No..."

Ed's stomach flips, and he somehow feels both panicked and furious at the same time. He doesn't know how there's even room inside of him for these two feelings, when it feels like he's on the verge of overflowing with pure desire. "What?!" he bursts out. "James, how can you not—"

James looks potentially just as angry with himself as Ed is with him, but he opts for defensiveness nonetheless. "Well, I'm not—seeing anyone! So—"

"Yes but just in case!" Ed snaps. "How have you not _learned?_ Sometimes you just get lucky—"

"I wouldn't call this 'getting lucky'," interrupts James, darkly. "I mean, it's more like 'getting drugged'."

Ed's heart sinks, so sudden and fast it feels like it actually hurts. "Well," he says, painfully reminded once again that James's willingness comes with conditions. "No. I suppose you're right."

There's a tense silence.

Then James says, very meekly, "We could always, um, you know. Not, uh. Use any."

"Well, we're going to have to not use any," says Ed crossly, "if you don't have any," and then he notices the way James is blushing and realises James doesn't mean 'not fuck', he means 'fuck _anyway_ '. "Oh." He feels like he's been slapped across the face. "You mean—"

"I mean," says James awkwardly, "I've got no, uh—reasons, for that to be an issue, so if you don't either, then, you know, we—could. Technically." He swallows uncomfortably, suddenly looking like he massively regrets saying anything. "I mean, unless that's—gross, or—"

"Oh my god," Ed interrupts him, quietly, needing a moment to recover. "No, that's—that's fine with me. Are you sure?"

James nods, his gaze skittish, sliding away.

"I mean, I don't have to—" Ed stumbles. _Come inside you, come inside you, come inside you,_ his brain chants, and it's very difficult to ignore. "I mean, I can pull out."

James squirms violently. He knows it was _his idea_ but he spoke without thinking, because that keeps goddamn _happening_. He wasn't thinking about—about _that_. He was just desperately trying to find a way for this to still happen.

"Let's not talk about it," he says, "can we just—get on with it, _please._ "

"Yeah," says Ed, but then he's kissing James, and they're beginning to rub up against each other again in an almost unintentional way; at least, James isn't aware that he's doing it for a good few seconds and even once he is, it's difficult to make himself stop. It would be so easy to just lie here and grind against each other for as long as they need to; it feels _so_ good, and James badly wants to come again, his body aching for it already even though he can feel himself beginning to get tired. 

But something tells him merely rubbing off on Ed's body won't be enough for him this time. There's a strange, new feeling that he couldn't begin to describe, an emptiness, a craving, something that's got him twisting about beneath Ed trying to—trying to get his cock to touch him where he wants it _inside_ —

"Ed, I need it so bad," he hears himself say suddenly, and he sounds scared. He didn't even mean to speak at all, but the words tumble out regardless, porny and humiliating. 

But Ed doesn't laugh. Instead he says, "I know," and James can tell he's attempting to soothe but he looks a little crazed, and he sounds more empathetic than patronising, like maybe he's just as overwhelmed as James is. The thought makes something tighten in James's stomach.

" _So_ bad, Ed," he babbles urgently, and he wishes he'd shut up, but he feels so frantic and panicked and desperate, and he needs Ed to _know_. "I'm not trying to be sexy. I mean I feel like I'm gonna die."

Ed chuckles a little at that, and then sits up, heaving himself onto his knees in the gap between James's legs, and James suddenly feels a rush of clammy nausea as their bodies separate from one another, along with a stab of hurt confusion at the fact that Ed even managed to pull away. 

"Drama queen," says Ed fondly.

His voice has a certain tension in it, but the casual brush-off stings James, lets him know that they're _not_ equally affected after all. Of course they aren't, he reminds himself. It only makes sense that James would be feeling worse, when there's already something inside him for this witchcraft to work off, some pre-existing tangle of suppressed emotions and desires to build upon. He tries to imagine being in Ed's position, being in this situation with someone for whom he's got none of these sorts of feelings whatsoever—and it makes him feel sick. The thought that he could be made to want to fuck someone _anyway_ , even if he had no prior interest in them at all—it would be a violation, of both mind and body. And though Ed hardly seems reluctant, James knows that whatever they're dealing with here is alarmingly powerful. Maybe having an emotional bond with someone, even if there's nothing sexual behind it, makes it easier for the magic to really get its claws in and take hold.

Ed leans in a bit and puts his hand on James's forehead tenderly, like he did when he was checking his temperature, but this time he lingers, petting him gently. James loses track of his train of thought instantly and writhes like a cat, pushing up into the touch, wanting Ed's hand all over him. He wants it over his mouth so he'll stop saying stupid things, or—or maybe Ed could put his fingers in, make him suck on them. He moans, loud and embarrassing, at the mere _thought_.

"God," says Ed, quick and quiet, letting go of him. "Fuck. Shut up, James."

"I'm trying," says James in a pathetic voice, attempting to shift up against him in search of friction.

"Well, try harder. I can't think when you're being such a—" He cuts himself off.

"Such a what," says James, barely breathing.

"Such a _distraction_ ," says Ed.

"I don't want you to think," James blurts out. _Oh no,_ he thinks vaguely, afraid of what else he's about to say, but the words just keep spilling out. "I don't want you to think, and to—to censor yourself, and—" he sounds hysterical, "you said you ate them so we'd both be in the same state! But apparently we're _not_ if you're still able to do those things!"

Ed stares at him a moment, and James cringes. Then Ed lets out a long breath, low, and moves back slightly so that they're no longer touching at all. It feels like needles through James's skin. Ed still doesn't say anything, and he's looking at James with a weird kind of focused expression. James has to slide his gaze away because it's too intense. It's making him feel like Ed knows exactly what's really upsetting him about the fact that Ed's not suffering as badly as he is.

But then Ed runs a hand through his sweaty hair and says quietly, "Yeah." He takes another breath. "Yeah, you're right."

"What do you mean I'm right?" says James, muddled. As emotional as he feels, his body is nagging urgently at him to forget it all and get back to what they were doing. He has to remind himself, stunned, that he's already come twice, because it feels like it's been forever since he's been touched.

"I mean," says Ed, his voice measured, "you're right, that _was_ the point. Of me taking it as well."

"Yeah," says James, vague and still confused. He's already losing sight of why this even matters; every second that Ed's not touching him feels completely meaningless.

Ed rubs his forehead with the back of his hand, frustrated. James doesn't get it—how can he not get it?—of _course_ Ed's in the same state, hasn't he made that clear? If anything he feels _worse_ than James does, because the drug's amplified desires that were already there, turning them up to a deafening volume.

"One of us needs to keep it together," he says sharply. "But yes, I am, all right?"

"You are what," says James, looking bleary.

"In the same state," says Ed. "Believe me. I want to fuck you so badly I feel like my brain is disintegrating. It's terrifying. Is that what you want to hear?"

James draws in a startled breath and holds it for a moment, then relaxes with a long sigh. "Yes, thank you," he says, sounding immensely relieved.

And that's when realisation slams home. Of _course_ that's what James wants to hear. James wants to know exactly how much of a mess Ed is, so that he feels better about being such a mess himself. That was _exactly_ the point of Ed taking the drug as well; so that James wouldn't feel humiliated or self-conscious or—alone. And Ed's been doing what he always does: being the calm one, the sensible one, trying to be in control of the situation when that's the exact opposite of what James actually needs from him right now. 

"Right," says Ed.

He stands up with some difficulty, holding out a hand to help James up too, and once James is halfway to his feet, stumbling, Ed musters every last bit of strength and abruptly hoists James into his arms. James lets out a startled yelp and flails as he's heaved into the air, and Ed staggers backwards and they very nearly both topple over, but Ed stands firm with his feet further apart, spreading the weight, steadying James's lanky body in his arms. James's skin is slippery with sweat under his arms and behind his knees, where Ed is trying to grasp. He throws his arms around Ed's neck instinctively, holding on for security.

" _Right_ ," Ed says again, and sets off around the corner for the bedroom, careful not to knock James's head on any walls.

He flops James unceremoniously down onto the bed, and then immediately climbs on top of him, making a strange, conscious effort not to think, to just let the feeling carry him. He finds himself kissing James rather fiercely as a result; he bites his lip by accident, but James barely seems to notice, falling apart under him. Ed can feel the tension flowing out of him, as well as the heat radiating from him as he wraps his arms around Ed and kisses back hungrily, legs falling open yet again so that Ed can fit back between them. Their cocks press up against each other, slick and hot, and Ed feels himself being wound a notch tighter with every shift of James's body beneath him.

James pushes him away after a few moments so he can speak. "Oh," is all he says at first, looking shy and dazed and beautiful. His lips are swollen. Then—"You actually want this."

Ed feels a swell of frustration. "Of _course_ I want it, you daft prick," he snaps. "How am I still not making it clear?"

James looks away, as if caught out somehow. "No, I mean—"

"What?" Ed demands impatiently.

"I _mean_ ," says James, and takes a deep breath. "You want it—anyway? Like—you wanted it...before?"

Ed's heart somersaults. His instinct is to deny, as it would be under ordinary circumstances—it seems especially risky to acknowledge the one-sidedness of this situation at this stage—but there's something in James's eyes that makes him freeze and examine him more closely. He doesn't look worried, or disconcerted, or uncomfortable, or any of the things Ed might expect. He looks _hopeful_. He looks like he wants Ed to say yes.

So—

"Yes," says Ed, suddenly horribly aware of the way his heart's hammering against his ribcage. "Oh my god. Yes. You too?"

"Yes!" James bursts out, looking almost hysterical, his hair curling wildly with sweat, his cheeks so bright. He actually laughs, loud and elated, covering his face with both hands, and the sound is contagious.

"Oh, for the love of—" says Ed, prying James's hands away so he can kiss him again. "You could've _said_."

"No I couldn't!" exclaims James hotly.

"Right, no," says Ed hurriedly. "But still—for fuck's sake."

He laughs again, then kisses him again. It feels like a great weight has been lifted; he feels _giddy_. He feels like he can finally actually attempt to just _enjoy_ this, just ride the wave, like there's no longer any reason to try so hard to fight it.

"Do you have lube?" he asks, and James hesitates. "James, that is a perfectly normal thing to own and I will not judge you for it. In fact if you don't have any I might cry."

"I have some," says James.

"Well, thank god for that," says Ed, a little frantic. "I was five seconds away from going at you with cooking oil. Where is it?"

James scrambles out from under him, and the separation is only bearable because Ed knows it's leading to something much, much better. James rummages around in his bedside cabinet for far too long, and then finally produces a rather battered-looking bottle of lube. The label's wearing off, and Ed hopes it hasn't expired but doesn't actually check when James thrusts it triumphantly in the palm of his hand.

James hesitates for a moment, and then gets onto all fours, which sort of stuns Ed speechless. He feels a deep and savage urge to mount him instantly, just take a tight hold of his hips and plunge in deep—he even finds that he's moving closer before he catches himself and it's frightening. As fun as certain aspects of this experience are turning out to be, Ed is deeply unsettled by that particular effect the drug is having on him, the one where he does things and only realises he's done them _afterwards_. And while they've established that James wants him to go with his gut, Ed's fairly sure he wouldn't appreciate him forgoing lube and just thrusting into him with no warning.

Ed takes a few deep breaths.

"Well, it doesn't have to be doggystyle," he says when he thinks he's got himself under control. "I mean, I wouldn't mind seeing your face."

James steadies himself clumsily on one hand in order to lift the other and run it down over his face, wiping off sweat. The thought that Ed actually _wants_ that is something he can't entirely deal with; he's still struggling to cope with the idea that Ed's even attracted to him in the first place. There's an insecure part of him that refuses to believe it—tells him Ed must be lying, to make him feel better—but he knows deep down that it's true, because he can _feel_ it. It seems so clear now that he can't believe he didn't sense it earlier on, Ed's genuine lust for him fuelling his actions. 

Somehow it's nowhere near as much of an earth-shaking revelation as it would have been on any other day, or perhaps James is in too much of a state to fully process it. Either way there's just no _time_ to dwell on it; not when his skin is prickling all over with the need to be touched, and not now he knows Ed really _wants_ to touch him, would want it even if he were in his right mind. His main takeaway is just that it's all the more reason to have Ed inside of him as soon as possible.

Still, he feels so shaken up that he doesn't quite know what to do with himself. There's a part of him that just wants to do whatever Ed tells him to, because it'll be easier than having to try and make himself think, but there's something holding him back. He feels so intensely exposed by this entire experience already, and he knows that if he had to lay on his back—had to look Ed in the eye or even just let him look at his face while he—

No. He can't. He shifts from knee to knee, settling into his position. "I want it like this," is what he ends up saying instead of attempting to explain.

Ed's swallow is audible, and for a second James thinks he's going to say something rude, and he holds his breath waiting for it. But then Ed just says, "All right, 's up to you."

He slides his hands up the backs of James's thighs and James shivers, warmth spreading through him from Ed's touch, sparkling its way through his nerves. He turns his head to one side and tries to relax, and then has the disconcerting realisation that his body already _is_ relaxed, it's just his mind that's going a thousand miles an hour, and his thoughts are so jumbled he wouldn't know where to start trying to get them in order. It seems much easier to just accept it. He trusts Ed, and he also needs to be fucked so badly he has very few concerns about the whole process. He has a distant awareness that it might hurt, or at least feel uncomfortable, or that he might just not _like_ it for whatever reason—but it's like none of those things really matter. It's very odd, because he knows this is nowhere near what his mindset would normally be in this situation, but—maybe they'd never _be_ in this situation if things were normal.

He feels a sudden rush of gratitude towards Ed for worrying about him enough to show up, and being reckless enough to eat the biscuits. If that hadn't happened, he'd never know what it feels like to need this so badly, and to be about to get it. He can feel his anxiety and shame ebbing away, and he feels weightless without it, untethered.

He hears Ed opening the lube and that alone feels weird and intimate, Ed slicking up his fingers, taking care because he doesn't want to hurt James. The first touch is strange, because he's never been touched there before, and it's so tender and intimate and _weird_ , made weirder still by how much he wants it, flames licking at his belly, that magic in his bloodstream making his body beg for more. 

"Oh," he says stupidly in a small voice as Ed slowly slides his finger in. It doesn't hurt exactly, but it feels strange, and yet right away he wants more of it, greedy for more sensation.

"Okay?" Ed murmurs, and James makes a little sound of agreement so that he'll keep going.

Ed carefully eases his finger almost all the way out and then pushes it back in, and James shudders all over until Ed places a firm hand on the curve of his hip, which doesn't technically _do_ anything but James feels like he's telling him to keep still, so he tries to do so. 

He tries to focus on the feeling of having something inside of him, because surely he needs to get used to it—but it feels like he's already adjusted within seconds, his body accepting it gladly. It feels satisfying in a different sort of way to having his cock touched, but it's still maddeningly good and when Ed adds a second finger—murmuring a warning to which James frantically nods his head—he can't help twisting about a bit like he's trying to push back against Ed's hand, impatient and needy. Ed caresses him gently, slides his hand to the small of James's back where his spine is arched, and strokes the hot skin there.

Then his hand slips away, and his fingers begin to work in and out of James more quickly, with purpose. James can hear the slick sound of Ed's hand working on his cock, like he's too excited by what he's doing to resist, and that excites James in turn—the idea that Ed is so turned on by what he's doing that he's got to touch himself, thinking about what James feels like around his finger, wanting to put his cock in—

"Does it feel good?" Ed asks, voice soft but strained. "Is it helping?"

"Yeah," James gets out.

"Sorry if I'm not—gentle," says Ed uncertainly, and James can feel him shifting behind him. "I'm trying to go slow and everything but I really— _fuck,_ I need to be inside you."

"Yeah," says James again, shivering from head to toe at the way he sounds, the desperation in his voice. He's not sure he _wants_ Ed to be gentle. He wants to know what it would feel like for him to be rough, just taking what he wants. He wants to feel exactly how much Ed needs him—he's been denied it for so very long. "I think I'm ready," he says, breath hitching in his throat.

"Yeah?" says Ed, eagerly, his fingers gradually stilling. "You sure?"

Actually James isn't sure. The logical part of his brain—so muted now, almost imperceptible—is trying to tell him to go easy, that if he doesn't it might _hurt_. But all that his body wants is for Ed to fill him up, and he can't wait any longer.

He mumbles affirmation, and a small "Please," slips out even though he tries to stop it.

Ed withdraws his fingers carefully and then takes a few seconds—James hears the snick of the lube again, presumes he must be wetting his cock with it, and trembles with anticipation. It feels like he's been waiting for this forever.

"Put it in, please," he begs brokenly, hearing how stupid he sounds and hating himself for it in a vague, inconsequential sort of way.

"It's okay," Ed soothes.

He's holding James firmly by the hip, but once James feels it he jolts anyway, Ed's cock so hot and hard pressing into him. It feels so _big_ and it makes him ache as it slides inside, but he doesn't even recognise the feeling as pain until Ed's fully sheathed inside of him and giving him a moment to adjust. It's so overwhelming that all of the sensations begin to blur together, and now he simply can't think at all and it's wonderful, it feels like bliss, it feels like salvation. 

Ed is breathing so heavily; James hears him mutter a reverent, "Oh, my god," as he stays like that, nestled inside James's body, and it feels so right that the two of them are joined this way, it feels like it's all James has ever wanted.

Ed draws back slowly, and when he thrusts in again, James groans low in his throat. Every fibre of his being seems to thrum with pleasure, and when Ed retreats again, James finds himself pushing back into the cradle of Ed's hips, chasing the feeling. He's too eager, slams himself back too violently; Ed's cock is rammed so deep that he chokes out a breath and sees stars.

He feels like he's in a dream, but the strangeness of it all is no longer unsettling. He welcomes it, gives himself over easily. He doesn't need to think about what he's doing, because it feels like he no longer has any choice in the matter at all. The magic has swallowed him whole, and he's happy to have surrendered to it, grateful that whatever he might do, he's not really responsible. There's something bigger than him governing his actions now, and that means there doesn't have to be any worry or guilt: he's blameless. It's comforting, in a strange way that he never would have imagined, to lose control so thoroughly. 

Seemingly encouraged by James's obvious enjoyment, Ed thrusts again and again, hard enough that James's whole body—weak, unsteady on his hands and knees—is rocked by the force of it. It's too fast too soon but James doesn't care—he knows how hard Ed must have been trying to keep it together all this time and honestly if anything he's just impressed by how long he's managed to hold out. Besides, it feels so unimaginably _good_ , not just the sense that Ed's so hot for him he can't hold back, but even the slight burn as Ed sinks his cock in deep, the way he can feel himself stretch for it.

His arms give out first; he folds onto his forearms, struggling to keep the weight on his hands. Once he's done that he can't help lowering his upper body onto the mattress too, it's just so tempting. It changes the angle a little too, and he moans at that, relaxing into the feeling of being fucked, happy to let Ed do what he wants, knowing that he can just lie here and enjoy it. He feels only the faintest tingle of shame, with his arse raised high in the air like this, his face settling into the cool pillows. 

"Fuck, James," says Ed harshly, clutching him tighter, fingers biting into his hips.

"Mmph," James responds, arching up just a fraction more, and Ed groans and leans right over, hands flat on the bed either side of him. It makes him slide in deeper and James gasps sharply.

Ed echoes the sound. "God," he pants out, his breath tickling the hair at the back of James's neck. "Can I just—"

James moans his acquiescence, and Ed starts to pound into him unforgivingly, turning the sound into a cry.

The force of it makes James sink down all the way; his knees buckle and slide apart until he's flat on the bed, and his cock pushes into the sheets. It feels like it's been ignored for so long, and the texture of the fabric brings a sudden, coarse friction that draws another muffled moan from his lips. He feels—trapped, Ed's body blanketing him now. When Ed stills for a moment, James squirms, shifting against the cock inside of him, feeling himself move around it. It feels like there's nowhere for him to go, no way of getting away with Ed on top of him like this, unable to escape the unrelenting pressure of his cock buried deep inside him. It feels—it feels like the best thing he's ever felt. He can't imagine anything feeling better than this. Ed starts fucking him hard again and he's rocked against the mattress, his cock forced roughly into the sheets, dripping wetly until it's smearing against them, the damp fabric clinging and snagging on it as it's caught between his stomach and the bed.

Ed thrusts heavily, shallowly, flattening James against the bed with his full weight and making him open up for his cock. Their bodies are slick with sweat, sliding against each other; Ed can feel the shifting of James's shoulder blades against his chest. God—he'd wanted to be careful, and considerate, but he's been rendered clumsy and selfish with the force of his lust. He feels like an animal, compelled by some inescapable biological urge, and it unnerves him how _easy_ it is to pin James down like this and fuck him roughly, quick snaps of his hips slamming his cock deep into that tight, blissful heat. He can hear the slick, dirty sounds they're making, along with the soft and broken little gasps escaping from James as he's driven into the mattress with each heave of Ed's hips. 

Ed wants to slow down—he wonders if he could make James work for it, bounce back on Ed's cock because he needs it so badly. He wishes he could at least straighten up again so that he could appreciate the view, instead of slumping here with his face shoved in the sweaty nook between James's neck and shoulder, so close his vision's gone blurry. But he can't _stop_ , not even for a second. He can hardly bear to pull out of the heat of James's body more than the few inches necessary for him to be able to cram himself back inside again. James's arse is clenching around him, pulling him in; he's yielding so beautifully and Ed wants this to last _forever_ , he doesn't want this feeling to ever end, but he can feel his orgasm rapidly approaching and before he has a chance to even attempt to hold it off, it's got him in its grip. He inhales sharply as he feels it, the sudden sharp burst of release; he spills deep inside James and for a moment everything is blotted out as his mind shimmers into blankness.

Once he's recovered enough that he can open his eyes, it seems like the room is spinning around him. James is limp beneath the dead weight of Ed's body, panting hard, and Ed manages to lift himself up a little, easing his cock out of him. His come follows, and his breath catches in his throat at the sight of it, the trickle of white—it begins to slide down to James's balls and without thinking, Ed catches it with his thumb. Mesmerised, he slips it back inside with the tip of his thumb before he even realises what he's doing, and then gets distracted by the way James suddenly convulses in response. His body seems to seize up all of a sudden; his hole tightens around Ed's thumb and then quivers, and then he goes slack once again, though his hands are still balled into tight fists around two handfuls of bedding.

Ed snakes his hand beneath James's body, and he sort of smears his own come along the way which makes it difficult to tell, but James's skin and the sheets beneath him both feel significantly damp.

"Fuck," he says, dizzy and stunned. "Did you just come?"

"Yeah," breathes James.

"Because I came in you?"

James's breathing is wheezy, his voice high. "Ed..." 

"God," says Ed wonderingly. "I was going to say sorry but I guess I should be saying you're welcome."

" _Ed,_ " says James again.

This time it sounds like a warning, so Ed lays off, but he's tingling with a dirty excitement all over and his cock's _still_ hard and aching. It shouldn't be a surprise, not now that James has come a _third_ time, but it's still faintly bewildering that the arousal rushing through him hasn't abated. It would be unsettling if he could bring himself to care, but he really can't, not with James sprawled on the bed like that with Ed's come dripping out of him. He definitely needs to get off again, and for a moment he entertains the tantalising thought of just grabbing hold of James's arse, spreading his cheeks apart and fitting his cock right back inside—coming inside him a second time, since he seemed to like it so much—

Ed grabs his cock hard at the base and tries to get a grip, tries to think about this seriously even as the force of his impulses threaten to drag him down. He's still almost constantly grappling for the upper hand, he realises, and it's exhausting, but he can't help it. Maybe the need for control is an integral part of his being, something the drug hasn't quite managed to take from him, while James seems to have given in easily, let it rule him without putting up _too_ much of a fight (at least, not since Ed kissed him). Perhaps that, too, plays a part—James's apparent willingness to lose himself completely. Like he told James earlier, one of them has to keep it together, and of course it's Ed. It's always Ed.

It's still a struggle to think much beyond the present moment in time, but he feels like his head might be marginally clearer now. The future seems hazy and insignificant, but he attempts to grab a hold of it and not let it slip through his fingers. He can hardly comprehend no longer being in the thrall of this thing, but he tries to imagine the morning after, wonders how this is going to affect their relationship. Almost immediately he loses sight of his train of thought; it's too much for his brain to take on right now, and it's so tempting to just forget all about it and sink back inside James again, lose himself in pleasure.

Still, he has a vague idea that all of this will probably be a lot harder on James than it will for him, though he can't currently quite grasp all the details of why and how. At the moment all he can manage is a feeling, that James might feel—used. Maybe Ed needs to let James use him, too.

He only means to touch on the idea, just to be thorough and consider all options available, but his brain latches onto it and won't let go. And it's not just because it feels like the right thing to do, feels _fair_ —it's not only his brain that's responding positively to the idea, but his body too; he can feel some fresh new wave of arousal cresting inside of him, and it's as if it reinvigorates the power of the drug and knocks him sideways with a sudden desire for even more. He needs to feel what James felt.

He finds an old t-shirt draped over the end of the bed, and tenderly wipes away his come from James's skin with the threadbare fabric. James twitches slightly but allows it, and then Ed rolls him over, and he goes easily, all floppy and boneless. When he's on his back, limbs spread out haphazardly, Ed sees that he's still hard, and he feels a confusing mix of relief and alarm at the sight of James's cock rising up against his belly, slick with come and rosy-pink. How many times will they need to come before this is out of their system? He wonders how many more times James can even _take_ , because he's already looking exhausted, out of it, a vacant sort of look in his eyes and his body clearly worn out. And what if it won't wear off? It doesn't bear thinking about.

"My turn?" he asks.

James looks at him through heavy-lidded eyes, uncomprehending. "Huh?"

"Return the favour?"

"What?" James still looks lost, and Ed feels a spike of panic, and he tells himself it's merely concern but he knows that it's not; knows it's because he _needs_ this, he has to have it, and the hunger in him won't let up. 

He tries to stay calm. He laughs a little, stroking James's thigh fondly. "I mean," he says, "how about _you_ fuck _me_ , and then maybe that'll finally do it."

"Oh," says James in a tiny voice. "Right. Yeah. That makes sense."

"Yeah?" asks Ed gently. "You don't seem sure."

James says nothing for a long moment. His eyes are half-closed. "It's just—" he says eventually, but struggles with his words. "I can't do it like you did," he says sheepishly. "I mean, I'm way too tired."

"That's okay," says Ed immediately, and though a small part of him feels an odd disappointment, he's not exactly surprised—even if James were on top form, Ed's not sure he could imagine him just pounding someone into the mattress, and it certainly doesn't seem like he has it in him now. He clings to the fact that James isn't actually saying no. "You can just lie there, yeah?" He can hear the desperation tinting his voice.

James screws his face up, rubs his hands over it. "Yeah," he says eventually. "Yeah, okay. I still need—" he breaks off, and his eyes are wide now, almost fearful. "Ed, I still need to come again, it's..."

"I know," says Ed gently, even though he's _itching_ with it now, just wants to crawl on top of him. "I know, me too, but it's okay, we'll get through it, yeah?"

James takes a deep breath, his thin frame shuddering with it. "Yeah," he says.

"Don't worry, you can just lie there," says Ed again, feeling himself starting to babble as he fumbles around in the sheets for the lube. "I'll get myself ready and—I'll make it better, I promise. It'll be over soon, yeah?"

James does as he's told and just lies there. He doesn't feel capable of anything else, and even though a faraway part of his brain is screaming about the fact that Ed _wants him to fuck him_ , he doesn't have it in him to be anxious, even. And besides, he knows that there isn't any reason to be. Ed will do all the work. Ed will take care of it. Take care of him.

He watches sleepily as Ed uncaps the lube, smearing it over his fingers. His hands are trembling, James notes, with vague interest. The only other time James has seen Ed's hands tremble was when he got mixed up about his insulin levels at a party once, several years back—James can't remember what happened exactly but suddenly Ed went all weird, pale and shaky. It made James realise how rarely he ever actually saw Ed vulnerable. Something stirs inside of him at that thought; surely he's about to see Ed more vulnerable than ever. He's not sure he's ready for that.

Ed kneels up, reaching behind him, and James feels dimly annoyed that he can't really see properly, but then Ed's bicep tenses and he suddenly grasps at James's thigh with his other hand, moaning low in his throat. 

"Oh, fuck, that feels good," he says faintly, fingertips pressing lightly into James's skin. 

James suddenly wishes it was his own fingers making Ed feel that way, but the effort of moving seems utterly beyond him, and anyway it's enough to watch—almost too much, in fact. Ed looks so good; he's beautiful, kneeling like that with his torso stretched out, his arm disappearing behind his back. His head is thrown back, throat outstretched, and there's something so harsh and lovely about the pleasure on his face. He almost looks pained, and James can see the muscles in his arm tensing and relaxing as he thrusts his fingers in and out. His cock is standing up against his stomach, as hard as if he hadn't come at all, flushed and shining at the tip, and James's mouth waters.

He watches a bead of sweat roll down Ed's neck to his nipple, and his hand moves to his own cock instinctively, but the moment his fingers brush against it he flinches; it's so sensitive it feels almost _raw_. He whimpers pathetically, craving the touch but shying away from it at the same time. Ed's distracted, lost in his own pleasure, but when James finds himself curling his hand around his sore cock determinedly and then crying out as a result, his eyes fly open.

"What's wrong?"

"It hurts," James complains, feeling suddenly and horribly like he could cry, wrenched abruptly to breaking point.

Ed says nothing for a moment, and the look in his eyes is like he's somewhere far away, trying to drag himself back down to earth. "We don't have to," he says, and the words make James's blood run cold.

"But we _do_ ," he whines, and swallows hard, hand creeping back towards his cock again, "but I'm so—and it _hurts_ , Ed, it really—but I want it, I want it so bad, Ed. I need it, I—"

Ed hushes him softly, hand stroking at his thigh. He's trying to soothe but it feels like too much, James is so overstimulated that a gentle touch is akin to an electric shock. He hears himself make an injured sound, and tries to find the words to explain what this feels like—so that Ed can _fix_ it—but he knows there's no point, knows that the only thing to do is keep going, keep going until they can't anymore. James already feels like he's hit a wall, but he's still aching for it, so desperate to come it feels like he no longer even has a choice in the matter.

His sinuses sting, sudden and sharp, and he can feel tears beginning to well up in his eyes. His heart leaps into his throat and he focuses every last scrap of his energy on trying not to cry, unable to deal with the humiliation of it—not on top of everything else, every other indignity he's already been subjected to. He sniffs, willing the tears not to spill.

"Ed," he hears himself say in a pathetic little voice.

"C'mon, you can do it." Ed smiles at him. "Baby," he adds, sounding fond and sardonic at the same time.

James is pretty sure he's calling him _a_ baby rather than calling him baby, but it makes him feel all warm inside nonetheless. His stomach flutters embarrassingly. He knows that Ed's not being heartless, knows he's trying to make James feel better in his own way, and it helps a little, at least enough that James feels he can hold back the tears for now.

Then Ed's climbing into his lap all of a sudden, and James draws in a sharp breath.

"Am I too heavy?" asks Ed, grinning, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

"No. Feels good," says James, and his voice sounds slurred. 

He might have expected not to cope with Ed's weight on top of him when he's so sensitive and overwhelmed, but it feels oddly reassuring somehow, makes him feel more settled.

Ed doesn't give James much of a chance to prepare himself, but James has the vague ability to recognise that that might actually be a good thing—Ed's hand grasps his cock, his grip much firmer than James was able to manage, and James lets out a gasp that quickly turns into a wail as Ed sinks down onto him, the sudden heat and pressure dragging him towards that knife-edge of pain and pleasure once again. He's on the cusp of some sort of outburst, wants to shout or burst into tears, shove Ed off him and tell him that he can't, it's too much—but somehow he can't bring himself to do anything. Paralysed, he lets it all flow through him, succumbing. It feels like that's all he can do.

He blinks away the tears and when his vision clears a little, he registers the gratification and relief on Ed's face, and feels a new kind of pleasure beginning to work its way through his worn-out body. He likes that; seeing that look on Ed's face and knowing it's because of him, and he can't believe he's missed out on it until now, too caught up chasing his own satisfaction to pay attention to how he might've been making Ed feel.

Ed is fully seated in his lap now, one hand pressed to the middle of James's chest as he exhales raggedly, and the feeling of him around James's cock is intense; James is so hypersensitive and Ed is so tight that it _hurts_. But James focuses instead on the look on Ed's face; his eyes shut tight, eyebrows drawn up, head tipped back showing the sharpness of his jaw, two pink spots high on his cheekbones. For a moment nothing else really matters; the pain fades away, James can still feel the steady, insistent throb of it but it doesn't _matter_ , not when he's making Ed feel so good.

Then Ed starts to move, and all of a sudden his nerves are on fire again.

Ed eases himself up, trying to go slow, to be gentle; he can see how much James is struggling, but the moment he slides back down, feeling James's cock pushing in deep, he feels like he's losing himself again. It's a strange feeling, that fullness, but it feels like it's exactly what his body needs, and he can't help rocking down onto James's cock right away, feeling every minute shift and slide of it inside of him.

James looks completely overcome—he opens his mouth but no sound comes out, and Ed feels a stab of guilt, salves it with the reminder that they need this, that it'll all be over soon. Surely, _surely_ it'll be over soon.

James's torso is shining with sweat and come, flushed and blotchy. Ed steadies his hands on him and his skin feels soft and damp under his fingers, fever-hot. He levers himself up a little, sinks back down, feeling the solid slide of James's cock inside him, and he can't help marvelling at the fact that this is happening, that they're actually doing this. He feels a sudden rush of strange fear, as though for a second he doesn't know how he got here, like being so drunk you can't remember how you got home. Even as he reminds himself of the days' events it seems frighteningly surreal. He tries to focus on James's face, to ground himself in reality—then James reaches out, grabbing clumsily at Ed's hips with trembly hands. Ed has gone still, and the look on James's face is pleading; it's as though he's silently begging Ed to move.

Ed nods, feeling his thoughts drift off into the ether once again; almost immediately he couldn't say what he was worrying about. How could he worry about _anything_ when he's seated in James's lap like this, his thick cock deep inside, filling him so perfectly, making his body brim over with pleasure? He starts to ride him, and James's eyes fall shut and his jaw goes slack.

Ed curls his fingers around his cock and the touch sends tingling sparks through him; he knows he won't need much—he steadies himself on James with his other hand, hitching his hips up and down, picking up the pace. 

"It's okay, it's okay," he murmurs desperately to poor James, whose face is all screwed up, "nearly there, yeah? I'm nearly there. You're doing so good, James."

James draws in a shaky breath and hesitantly opens his eyes; they're red-rimmed and glassy, unfocused. Ed jerks himself as rough as he can stand, and finally he feels it, orgasm beginning to buzz its way down his spine—his hand tightens on James's chest and he bears down, lurches suddenly forward as he goes over the edge, spinning out into nothingness. Each orgasm seems more powerful than the last, and he's swept away by the sheer force of it. It feels as though he's expelling something more than just the few splashes of come that land on James's chest. 

He feels dizzy and disoriented as he comes down; the feeling of James's cock inside him so foreign. His surroundings drift aimlessly back and forth before his eyes and he forces himself to focus on James's face. He looks different in a way Ed can't immediately pinpoint, sort of _wild_ , and before he has much of a chance to process anything beyond that he's suddenly being grabbed around the waist and thrown down onto his back. He only has a split second to register the strange ache of emptiness before James is clambering on top of him, prying his legs apart with shaking hands and then thrusting his cock back inside, filling Ed back up in one smooth slide that knocks the air out of his lungs.

James is trembling all over, his hands brushing awkwardly against Ed's arse, thighs, waist—finally landing on the bed as he braces himself and his hips begin to piston with a sort of jittery urgency, his cock driving into Ed with erratic force. Ed hears himself laugh once he gets his breath back, more of a startled, exhilarated sound than anything, all thrilled shock as James fucks him frantically for a few bewildering moments and then just as quickly goes still—plunges his cock achingly deep and sobs out a plaintive sound.

Then he collapses on top of Ed, graceless and heavy, and his weight against Ed's cock—still hard, and getting sorer by the second—is too much. Ed gently prises him off, eases him onto his back beside him.

"Sorry," James gasps weakly. He's red in the face and looks absolutely wrecked. "I just needed..." he says vaguely, trailing off.

Ed properly laughs this time—he's so sweet, thinking he needs to apologise. Surely they're beyond that at this stage. "I'm not complaining," he says warmly.

He drifts a curious hand down between his legs and discovers that while he feels hot and tender, there's only the slightest wetness. James must be coming dry at this point, he realises, with an uneasy shiver.

"You okay?" he asks.

"Don't know yet," says James, sounding a little prickly, as though he might still be embarrassed of his behaviour. He falls silent for a while, long enough that Ed's about to try and reassure him again, but then he says in a small voice, "Yeah. Yeah I think it's—easing off."

"Well, thank fuck for that," says Ed, and he means it, he _does_ , but he can't ignore the selfish little flicker of disappointment he feels, because he still needs more.

He strives not to think about that for the moment, and heaves himself into a sitting position to check James over. The first thing he notices is that his cock's beginning, finally, to go soft—it's still reddened and sore-looking, but apparently it's been subdued by that final act of passion. Ed feels a wave of relief, even though his own erection hasn't flagged a bit, still aching for more. He ignores it resolutely, focusing on James.

"D'you think you can move? How about a shower?" Ed suggests.

James makes a weak noise of complaint. Even Ed has to admit that it sounds like a ridiculous notion. They're still in bed and naked and Ed still definitely needs to come again, so surely there are better ways they could spend their time. It's obvious that James can't manage anything further, but Ed could always rub off against him like before, maybe, or—roll him over onto his front again and thrust between his thighs, or—he could at least jerk off with the help of some kisses and words of encouragement.

He tries to fight those selfish urges and finds that it's getting easier to push them to one side. His body is growing weaker as time goes on, but it seems that the drug is too, and maybe it's finally possible to overpower it.

James is very tempted to just stay put, to let that heavy wave of exhaustion take him and send him drifting off to sleep. Sleep would be such a relief, after everything—he's so tired of _feeling_ things. But at the same time he's scared, because if he sleeps, he'll inevitably have to wake up in a sober state of mind eventually and have to face everything that's happened, and that makes dread settle in the pit of his stomach. Of course, it's going to happen no matter what, but he still finds himself wanting to delay it somehow.

It doesn't make any sense; he shouldn't _want_ to prolong an experience like this one. He's had his own personal agency taken from him, and it's been intrusive and mortifying and degrading, and yet—he's not ready for it to be over. It's as though he's experiencing some sort of Stockholm syndrome. 

"C'mon, let's get you cleaned up," says Ed, gently but firmly, using that voice that means he won't take any argument. "Don't you wanna wash all the jizz off you?"

James feels himself flush a little, because—yes, surely he'll feel better if he's clean, but washing away the evidence of what's happened just seems like another way of drawing a line under it, and that inexplicably fills him with sadness. He lets Ed help him into a sitting position nevertheless. 

"You're still hard," he points out, rather stupidly.

He supposes it makes sense that they would both be required to have the same number of orgasms before the thing is out of their system, but it's as though some part of him hasn't fully been able to let go of the notion that it's got a stronger hold on him than on Ed. He wouldn't be all that surprised if Ed could, at this stage, just get rid of his erection through the sheer power of his will, fight off any lingering effects with minimal effort.

"Don't worry about that," Ed brushes him off. "It's not so bad now actually. C'mon, shower and sleep, yeah? Then we'll feel better."

James doesn't know how he's got the energy for all this; he feels oddly resentful. Ed gets to his feet with remarkable confidence, and James decides not to mention the way he stumbles the second he draws himself upright, lets Ed help him to his feet too as if he's in any position to be doing so. He actually finds himself laughing, at the absurdity of it, Ed guiding James into his bathroom as if James is some sort of invalid, and all the while he's stumbling about with a massive boner. Maybe he's delirious after everything he's gone through, but he's suddenly got a fit of the giggles.

"What're you laughing at, you nutter," Ed says fondly, flipping on the bathroom light.

"This!" offers James with a vague gesture that he hopes conveys the situation in general. "It's so stupid."

"It is pretty stupid," Ed agrees. "I'm glad you can laugh about it now." James looks at him and is abruptly sobered by the look of his face under the harsh lights of the bathroom. He's still flushed, but the exhaustion is beginning to show on his face now; he looks drawn. "What?" asks Ed, noticing the way James is looking at him.

"Nothing. You just don't look so good."

"You're one to talk," Ed replies easily, but when he steps away to open the cubicle door and switch the shower on, James sees that he's trembling again, his hand slipping as he tries to turn the dial. "Go on, in you get."

The water is nice and cool, and it feels incredibly soothing as it flows over James's skin—he lets out a sound halfway between a sigh and a moan, tipping his head back under the spray, and when he opens his eyes Ed is gazing at him. It's still so strange, even now, seeing that look in his eyes. He looks like he's about to shove James up against the shower wall, and James even braces himself for it, his tired muscles going taut, but then Ed appears to shake it off, stepping carefully into the shower with James and shutting the door. James feels oddly disappointed, even though he knows his body can't take anything else right now.

He steps aside so that there's room for Ed beside him, and for a little while the two of them wash in silence. James isn't sure a shower has ever felt this stupidly good, it's even better than the first one after a festival. He passes Ed some shower gel, and can't help looking him over a little anxiously. He seems very quiet, his movements oddly robotic. James watches as he rubs some shower gel between his palms and then very hesitantly brings them between his legs; his cock is still hard and when he touches it he winces and then gasps. The touch seems to set him off again—it doesn't take long before his attempts at cleaning himself turn into jerking off, though it seems he's trying his best not to; the movements of his hand are stilted and weird.

"You obviously need to go again," James points out, eventually.

"Yeah," Ed admits with a reluctant sigh.

"I could...help," James offers, even though he's barely managed to gather the energy and coordination required to wash himself and is currently just sort of slumped against the wall, feeling like he's rooted to the floor.

Ed looks at him the way he does when James says something patently ridiculous. "James, you're an actual zombie," he tells him. "You look like you're about five seconds from passing out. I'll just take care of myself, it's fine."

James nods vaguely, watching through half-closed eyes as Ed's hand works on himself—he's touching himself gingerly as if it's sore, and James feels a stab of sympathy. He remembers his fantasies from earlier—god, it feels like so long ago, somehow—and suddenly he feels yet another wave of desire. He's too drained to be shaken by it this time, just lets it wash over him and settle in. He's grown so used to that throb of yearning that it feels, by now, like his natural state of being. Like it's all he's made for, wanting and aching. He listens to his body.

"I want to," he hears himself blurt out, and then, "please let me."

Ed looks bewildered as James heaves himself forwards, taking him by the hips and gently guiding him against the wall. And then, even though his exhaustion is bone-deep, even though every last inch of him aches, he finds himself sinking clumsily to his knees onto the tiles, steadying his hands on Ed's thighs, grounded by the feel of the solid muscle.

Distantly, he wonders how he can even _want_ to do this, after everything they've already done—how was it not enough? How can he be so insatiable? He can no longer tell if it's the magic's fault or his own; he decides to tell himself it's the former, though all evidence points to the contrary—his head is noticeably clearer despite his fatigue, and his erection shows no signs of returning for the time being. Maybe he just wants an excuse. Maybe he's always wanted to do this, and can't help but take advantage of such an enticing opportunity—he feels so uninhibited, after everything; it feels like he could do almost anything right now and not feel shy and awkward about it. All of that has been wrung out of him after the day's events; there's nothing left.

"What are you doing?" asks Ed, like James is just being silly.

"Helping," says James simply, and then loops a few gentle fingers around Ed's cock and takes it into his mouth.

Ed swears loudly, hands going instantly to James's head, clutching like he's not sure whether he wants to push James down further or pull him away. James makes the decision for him, relaxing his jaw, pulling Ed's cock over the flat of his tongue, the skin wet and so, so hot in his mouth. His lips stretch for it and it hurts, but it's good, it feels so sharply, breathtakingly _real_. Already, everything else they've done is fading like a dream, like something that couldn't possibly have actually happened. He wants to try and cling to it but he doesn't have the strength. Maybe he'll remember this, at least.

He takes Ed's cock as deep as he can without worrying too much about it, and is pleased to find his exhaustion has left him relaxed enough that he doesn't fight it when he gags a little, just pushes on mindlessly until he can feel it in his throat. Ed is swearing a lot, and he sounds slightly distressed but also very appreciative, so James keeps at it, draws back clumsily and then swallows him back down. Beneath the noise of the shower he can faintly hear the wet sounds of struggle he's making, and it sounds filthy, makes his body flush hot all over. But the water cools his overheated skin, soothes his aches and pains, and he feels strangely comfortable this way, like maybe the two of them could just stay like this, suspended in time.

He eases back to suckle gently at the head of Ed's cock before taking it deep again, fitting his throat around it, spluttering slightly and looking up at Ed for approval. Ed looks—broken.

"Fuck, James," he hisses, tangling his fingers desperately in his hair. "You're such a—such a _slut_."

James flushes, a little spark of shame flaring up inside of him, but he's aware it's more of a reaction to his own enjoyment of the word than the word itself. It feels right, feels _fitting_ , like he might've been calling himself that all along, somewhere in the back of his mind. Ed says it so nicely, like it's a compliment, and James thinks his blush might be turning into a glow. He works his mouth over Ed's cock with heightened enthusiasm, ignoring the discomfort as he takes it into his throat again, ignoring the sharp twinge in his knees as they object to the feeling of the hard tiles. He shuts it all out, narrowing his focus to Ed's pleasure and nothing else.

He's not aware that Ed's coming, at first, though his grip tightens on James's hair and his cock seems to pulse a little in his mouth. It's only when Ed makes a hurt little sound and begins tugging him back that it dawns on him, and he feels oddly, embarrassingly disappointed that there's nothing for him to swallow, wishing for something that can't be washed away. 

Ed makes to help James up, but he's so wobbly himself that they both end up on the floor, the water beating down on them as they sit there, sprawled carelessly on the tiles. James distantly recognises two new types of pain, and duly adds them to the list—the ache in his jaw and the rough, scratched feeling in his throat. Still, when Ed pulls him roughly forwards and fastens their mouths together, James parts his bruised lips readily, kisses him fervently even as the pain fizzes and crackles through him.

It's Ed who manages to get them back on their feet again, somehow, and give them a last brief wipe-down under the shower. His mind feels so much less murky already, though his body feels possibly more worn out than it's ever been. He's even more amazed by James's gesture now that he's feeling the full force of the debilitating exhaustion for himself. He can hardly stay upright, so the idea of managing to give a blowjob—and an insanely good one at that—is beyond him. (Which is something of a shame, now that he thinks about it, but he's hopeful there'll be a next time. There are lots of things Ed would like to do with James once he's back in full possession of all his faculties.)

Despite feeling like he's about to keel over, Ed feels a keen urge to try and return to normality somehow. Once they've wrapped themselves in towels and come out of the bathroom, James's bed looks incredibly inviting, even though the sheets are rather mangled and damp. He wants nothing more than to just throw himself face-first onto it and pass out, and he knows that's a perfectly logical way to feel after the day they've had, but somehow he still wants to fight it. Maybe it's because it's an urge that's coming from his body rather than his mind, much like all the earlier urges, and so he's instinctively resisting it. He _can_ use his brain now, and he wants to prove it.

"God, I'm getting a headache," he grumbles, putting a hand to his throbbing skull.

"Me too," moans James, stumbling past him towards the bed.

Ed grabs him by the arm to halt him in his tracks. "Don't lie down yet. You'll fall asleep the second you do, and I have a feeling the hangover from this is gonna be like nothing else. We're probably really dehydrated after losing all those bodily fluids. We should probably drink like, a gallon of water."

Ed expects James to make a fuss, but instead he surprises him by saying, "Okay. And you should probably check your levels."

"Oh," says Ed, touched. "Yes, I probably should."

They stagger through to the living room, where Ed locates his clothes and digs around for his supplies. His hands are so shaky that it's a struggle to prick his finger, and it dawns on him that he wouldn't even be able to tell if he was having a hypo or not right now considering the state he's in.

"Should we eat something?" he suggests. He realises he's completely lost track of time, and when he glances up at the clock he's surprised and disoriented to see that it's much later in the day than he would have thought. They were in such a frenzy that it seemed like it couldn't have lasted that long.

"Are you hungry?" James asks.

"No," admits Ed, "I feel a bit sick actually. But we probably need food. Maybe just something simple like crackers?"

"Okay," says James. He disappears off into the kitchen, seemingly glad to have something to do, and Ed can hear him opening cupboards and drawers. "D'you want some peanut butter?" he calls.

"That's probably a good idea," replies Ed, still concerned by how badly he's shaking.

By the time he's successfully checked his levels, and then proceeded to inject another half a cartridge of insulin once he sees the slightly alarming results, James has returned with crackers and peanut butter and bottles of water. Ed isn't all that surprised to see that he's also carrying a bar of his prized Whittaker's chocolate. 

"You okay?" James asks, nodding at the diabetes detritus as he settles himself on the floor by the coffee table.

"I will be," Ed assures him, tucking the pen away again and grabbing a bottle of water gratefully. "Thanks."

"Sure," says James.

Ed's surprised he's so willing to sit here and eat and drink instead of immediately crashing. He knows why _he's_ doing it; some desperate need to take back control after everything the drug has done to him—but James didn't seem all that fussed about handing over the reins and simply doing what his body told him to.

"I kind of don't want to sleep," James admits, apparently noticing the way Ed's looking at him. 

"Me neither," Ed says, spreading some peanut butter on a cracker and making himself take a bite.

"Yeah?" James prepares a cracker too and munches thoughtfully for a few seconds before he continues. "I can't explain it. I guess the sooner I fall asleep, the sooner I have to wake up and face what's happened." He wrinkles his nose. "I mean, not that it was like—bad, exactly."

Ed's surprised by his clarification; now that he thinks about it, it makes perfect sense that James is wanting to procrastinate the aftermath. Ed's not exactly looking forward to it himself—he hasn't done anything he regrets, exactly, but it's all been such an onslaught that right now he feels almost desensitised to everything that's happened. It might all look a lot different in the cold light of morning. Besides, it seems fair to have mixed feelings about having your own sense and logic ripped away from you, and being forced to obey urges that were at least somewhat artificially induced.

"Well, it was a bit of an ordeal, in a way," he says delicately, deciding this is an adequate way to sum it all up.

James makes a face. "Oh yeah, that's how I always want people to describe sex with me," he says, and Ed laughs.

"You know what I mean. It makes sense if we're a bit, you know...all over the place."

"Hm. I guess so," says James, tearing open the chocolate and devouring several squares in quick succession, clearly comfort-eating.

"Hey, woah," says Ed. "You know that ordinarily I'm all for you eating stupid amounts of sugar, but maybe go easy? You don't wanna make yourself sick."

James pouts but slows down, while Ed manages to eat another cracker and finish his bottle of water. He's still incredibly tired, but the food and drink definitely help him to feel more human. He's still thirsty, and has just managed to drag himself to his feet in order to fetch more water when he notices that James is staring blankly into space. Or, that's what he thinks at first, and then it sinks in that he's actually staring at the packet of biscuits still on the coffee table, at the two biscuits left inside, nestled there innocently in the plastic tray.

"D'you want me to throw those away?" he asks, reaching for the packet. James doesn't say anything, which is weird, and he's so totally motionless that for a second Ed wonders if he could've actually fallen asleep sitting upright, with his eyes open. "Earth to James."

"Oh," says James, dragging his eyes away from the packet. "Right."

Ed frowns at him and decides to sit down again. "What's going on?"

"Nothing," says James too quickly, shoving another square of chocolate into his mouth.

Ed narrows his eyes. "Do you... _not_ want me to get rid of the scary biscuits that made us lose our minds?"

"Uh," says James, swallowing hard. Ed isn't sure if the food has brought the colour back to his cheeks or if it's something else.

" _James_ ," says Ed, bewildered.

"No, I mean, obviously you should throw them away," James says hurriedly, running a hand through his damp hair. He takes a swig of water, and Ed notices he's not making eye contact.

"You sure?" he asks gently. "'Cause you don't seem sure, buddy."

James goes redder. "It's just—" he says, and then stops again. "I just sort of—I mean it was kind of nice losing my mind for a little while. I know that's fucked, I just—" he looks down, fidgeting, picking at a stray thread on his towel. "Just kinda liked not having control."

Ed takes a deep breath. The two of them know each other so, so well, and yet sometimes James still manages to come out with things that Ed doesn't see coming. "Right," he says slowly, mulling this over.

"Don't judge me," says James grumpily, and then, with a roll of his eyes, "ugh, it's worn off enough now that I care about being judged again."

Ed laughs softly. "I'm not judging you. Just thinking that there are probably other ways you can experience that without, you know, mysterious drugs sent to you by a stranger in the form of baked goods."

James's eyes flicker up to meet Ed's. "Oh," he says. "Yeah?"

"I expect so," says Ed, trying not to grin. "Let's talk about that another time though, yeah? Do you have a blanket or something we could sleep under? Your sheets are—"

"Soiled beyond belief," James supplies.

"I wouldn't go that far," Ed chuckles. 

He manages to get to his feet, swaying slightly. He knows that his body _really_ needs sleep now; he's fighting a losing battle and may as well admit defeat. Despite the fact that so much more time has passed than he realised, it's still abnormally early to be going to bed, but he suspects the two of them are so worn out that they'll manage to sleep until morning anyway.

"I'm gonna tidy up," he says, gathering things from the coffee table. "You try and get the bed in a decent state to sleep in, all right?"

James gives him a nod and wanders off into the bedroom again, and Ed notices that he stays close to the wall so he can support himself against it. Ed takes the remains of their snack back into the kitchen, along with the biscuits, which he crumbles carefully into the bin. Then he washes his hands very thoroughly, just to be on the safe side.

Before long, they're getting into bed, and Ed feels like he starts melting into the sheets the moment he touches them. The pillow smells like James, and he buries his face in it for a moment before rolling over onto his side and making himself comfortable. Sunset is still a way off, which means the room is still rather bright, and he can see that James is on his back, strangely rigid, staring at the ceiling.

"You okay?"

James makes a vague noise of complaint. "Just not looking forward to waking up." It takes Ed a moment to understand him, due to the giant yawn in the middle of the sentence.

"It'll be okay," Ed tells him. He's so sleepy his voice is coming out as a drawl. "I'll be here."

"Hmm," says James, clearly not adequately comforted, which means Ed has to put what little energy he has left into trying to find the right thing to say.

"You couldn't help any of it," he says eventually. "You know that, right? You were just doing what you had to do." He gives James a little poke in the arm and adds cheekily, "And you did it very well, may I just say."

A smile tugs at the corners of James's mouth, but he doesn't seem convinced. "But I wanted to do it," he says in a small, uncertain voice.

"That makes it better, not worse," Ed says drowsily. "Try not to think about it. Do you want me to get you some more chocolate?"

He doesn't know what he'll do if James says yes, because there's absolutely no way he's capable of getting up, but thankfully James just gives a little shake of his head.

"So are we, like—" says James suddenly, just as Ed's eyes are drifting closed, "—okay?"

"We're okay," Ed soothes. "We just moved really slow, and then really fast all of a sudden. Probably it all balances out." James nods, seemingly reassured by this. "C'mere."

Ed touches his shoulder, and James rolls over to face him, his expression questioning as Ed leans in. Ed gently takes him by the face and kisses him, slow, stroking his fingers against James's warm cheek and the line of his jaw. James softens, making a sleepy, satisfied sound against Ed's mouth.

"Oh," he says quietly, once Ed lets him go. "Yeah, okay."

Ed settles back against his pillow once again. "Think you can sleep now?" he asks.

James's response comes in the form of his breathing gradually evening out as he drifts off, and Ed smiles to himself, letting his eyes fall shut. He's sure they're in for a rough morning, but he doesn't feel too daunted. They'll be able to face it together. It was disturbing to become so detached from himself today, but he doesn't regret the rash decisions that led him there. If he hadn't been so foolish, so willing to dive headfirst into the unknown, he and James might never have been able to be truly honest with each other. Whatever the cause of the altered state that brought them so much pain and confusion and fear, Ed can't deny that it's left them with a certain freedom too. As he finally gives himself over to sleep, his last thought is that he might be reluctantly grateful.


End file.
